I exhale, feeling oddly unburdened.
The heat is back in the horseman’s eyes.
Seduce Death.
“I hate that I am drawn to you,” he admits.
Now I lower my glass.
When he sees my shock, Thanatos says, “Surely that can’t come as any surprise to you?”
It’s always going to surprise me that this … this … this monstrous angel is interested in me, the girl who never outgrew her hometown and never made much of a mark.
“I was better off before I met you,” he says. “There were few thoughts in my head then besides traveling and vanquishing. I spent no time musing on your eye color, or the savage expression you wear when you’re determined. I never replayed the way your body moved when you fought.”
I swallow, and I know I have a look in my eyes, the same one wild animals wear when they know they’re trapped.
I force myself to tear my gaze from him, turning my attention to my plate. Only this man could make me forget that I’m a starving woman sitting before a feast.
Setting down my wine, I lift my fork and take a bite of the pasta. There’s a moment where the sauce and the noodles gross me out—where all I can think about is that a dead body made this—but then the flavor hits and it tastes upsettingly good. I have another bite, and another, and pretty soon I don’t much care who made this because I’m ravenous.
I can feel Death’s eyes on me. I’m sure I look like a savage. I’m beyond caring.
Eventually, I do come up for air.
Next to me, Thanatos looks mildly horrified—which I take a gleeful amount of pride in—as well as very curious.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him.
“Food of the living?” he says, his gaze fixed to my mouth.
My mouth quirks at his words. “That’s a weird way of putting it,” I say. “Do you eat food of the dead, then?”
“I’m a death deity. I don’t need sustenance at all.”
I look him over—from his dark, wavy hair to his chiseled features, to the black wings and shirt that seem to devour the light.
“Have you ever tried food?” I ask.
“What would be the point?”
He hasn’t. He’s never bitten into a ripe apple or twirled pasta around his fork, or had a bite of bread with melted butter.
I’ve known for a while now that Death doesn’t have human needs, but to have never—not once—tasted food?
I set my fork down.
He’s still watching me with burning curiosity when I push myself out of my chair and approach him. Ignoring Thanatos for a moment, I pick up a slice of bread. I grab the bottle of olive oil that rests nearby and I pour a little of it onto a small plate that seems to have been set out for such purpose.
I dip the bread into the oil and then I turn to the horseman. Bread and oil is one of the most basic foods; it seems like a good place to start.
I take a steadying breath. Here we go.
Before he can do anything at all, I sit down in his lap. I hear Thanatos’s sharp inhale, but then his hands fall on my hips.
“If you try to stab me—”
“With what, the butter knife?” I say teasingly. More serious, I add, “I’ve left that behind, Thanatos.”
His fingers press into my skin at the sound of his name.
I hold up the bread, a line of oil sliding down its flaky crust. “I want you to try this.”
Death grimaces. “Perhaps I would prefer a good stabbing.”
I bite back a laugh. Only this man would say such a ridiculous thing.
“This is bread and olive oil. Humans have been eating it for thousands of years. It’s good. And I want you to try it.”
His chest rises and falls. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you care at all?”
“For a year now, you have forced me to experience what death is like. Maybe it’s time you experienced a little life for a change.”
He hesitates, looking half convinced.
“It won’t kill you,” I say.
“An unfortunate truth,” he murmurs. “Death, I am comfortable with. This … I am not.”
I’m trying really, really hard not to snicker at the fact that this man—who has been shot repeatedly by me—is afraid of a little bread.
“This is your victory dinner,” I remind him. “And dinners are meant to be eaten.”
He frowns.
“And,” I add, “if you try it—” I hesitate, my gaze dropping to his lips, “I will kiss you.”
His starry eyes flash. In an instant his hand closes over mine, and he brings the bread I hold up to his lips. He stares at it for a moment, scowling.