Page 113 of Revenant

I erase the mark and move it a fraction to the left. “You’re fading,” I say to the paper. “I used to be able to close my eyes and see every one of these. Now I’m guessing.”

The admission tastes like failure. I’ve spent centuries certain that if nothing else survived me, my memory would—every moment of my existence I’ve detailed through art out of spite, if nothing else, and now my memory of her freckles is lacking.

Her mouth is next. The slight upward pull at one corner that never fully settles, like she’s permanently withholding the rest of her smile from me. I don’t deserve to see her smile.

Time passes as I work, sketching one detail after another that argues with everything I once memorized. I sit back and study the finished product of her, imperfect on the page, staring back at me with the same defiance she wears every time she sees me.

I stand, grab a tack from the small tray on my desk, and pin the portrait to the wall. Covering one that’s centuries old, the way I’ve been doing for months now. One inch of wall at a time, like it’s some kind of penance I’ve assigned myself without ever once asking if I deserve absolution.

It’s starting to feel like closure. But closure was never meant for men like me.

I step back, take stock of my work, and tell myself it means nothing. A lie I’ve gotten quite skilled at telling myself, considering how much practice I’ve had.

She’d hate this if she knew. The thought of displeasing her settles somewhere I don’t care to examine, and I decide that it isn’t worth the trouble caring for her thoughts.

I run a thumb along the edge of my most recent addition. This is the only kind of control I have left in a life that’s spent the better part of a millennium taking everything else from me, piece by piece, until all I had was this wall and the discipline to keep adding to it.

The others can believe I’ve softened and draw whatever practiced conclusion makes them feel clever. I haven’t changed. I’ve simply redirected my obsession toward something marginally more interesting than a dead woman’s memory. If it happens to look like tenderness from a distance, that’s a failure of their perception, not a confession of mine.

I sit back down at my desk, reach for a fresh sheet, and start again.

36: Alicent

Bastian’s rotation is going to be the death of me. Well, my vagina. I woke up this morning with his dick buried inside me, and his mouth closed over my nipple while he coaxed me awake. The sight of him naked, unhurried as he took his time ravishing every inch of me was enough to make me finish on the spot.

This has gone on all day.

You would think the guy’s been a virgin his whole, immortal life, and he just had his first taste of pussy. It’s barbaric, but the only thing that’s complaining is between my legs.

Not really, but damn, am I sore.

The guys are nothing if not competitive. Fighting for who gets me each week. If I end up in another’s bed than I’m supposed to, the one who feels as though they’ve been gypped demands the night be “made up,” as if I’m in some kind of custody arrangement.

And they don’t mean sleeping.

I’ve kept myself cooped up inside Bastian’s room all weekend trying to catch up on homework and possibly get ahead. Roughly every thirty minutes, he finds a way to interrupt because he thinks a study break is due.

It’s never due.

If he had his way, we would never leave the bed and I would flunk out of college and be his own personal sex toy.

Part of me thought maybe they wouldn’t all be as keen on sharing me. That they all just went along with it because they wanted me to be happy. I brought it up to Bastian on our first night together, and he let me know that wasn’t the case. In fact, later that night, when he decided to make it his personal mission to get me to orgasm for the fifth time in a row, he explained to me in vivid detail all the things we could do together.

That was for sure the reason for my final release.

He said they just didn’t want to pressure me, that all of this was new and we didn’t need to complicate it by adding more to the mix. It’s a nice sentiment, but since he painted such a breathtaking picture, I haven’t been able to keep it out of my head.

Bastian pokes his head into the room, his black t-shirt contouring all the ridges and divots of his frame. I lick my lips instinctively, eyes tracking over the tattoos that markup both of his arms, and up his throat. A smirk dances on his lips, reaching all the way to his devilish jade green eyes. Holding a look that tells me he’s already wondering what I would look like in whatever new compromising position he deems fit.

“Absolutely not,” I tell him, tucking the covers tighter around my legs. “I’m officially waving a white flag. I need a break.”

His laughter fills the room, so low and deep that it causes butterflies to take flight in my stomach. “Awe, come on, spawn. How little you must think of me to presume that’s all I’ve come in here for.” Bastian slaps a hand on his chest as if my assumption offended him.

It didn’t. He’s just dramatic.

I roll my eyes, even though the way he’s looking right now already has me questioning being a responsible adult. “If you keep distracting me, I might have to find somewhere else to stay in the meantime.” We both know it’s an empty threat. However, the fake shocked expression that appears on his face without missing a beat almost convinces me that I meant it.

“You. Wouldn’t. Dare.” He stalks toward me like a predator, as if he knows my pussy clenches with each step that closes the distance.