His fingers tighten in my hair. “How’s it feel knowing your boy toy’s in the next room watching Golden Girls while you’re down here gagging on the goddamn Harbinger of Famine?”
Harbinger. Of Famine. Horseman of the Apocalypse. Jesus Christ—how many names do these guys need? Is there a newsletter?
Still, I don’t miss a beat.
“Feels great,” I mutter, voice muffled and defiant. “Bet he’s having a better time than I am.”