Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
He couldn’t catch his breath, feeling Kyle upon him like he had never needed another person in his life more than Tristan. To be the center of Kyle’s world was all that mattered. Tristan felt weightless in Kyle’s grasp. He could be aggressive with him or as gentle and meticulous as handling a wounded bird. Kyle’s warm smile was a reward for all of the pain they endured together. Each kiss was chased with the next. Every placement of a hand, of their lips, even of their eyes as they gazed upon one another between breaths, it spoke volumes as to how devoted they truly were to one another. Twenty-six years was never enough. Tristan easily would have desired fifty. One hundred. Even two centuries with his love Kyle Amos wouldn’t be enough.
Tristan brings a hand to his heart, feeling as if Kyle is upon him right now, his lips, his breath, his pretty eyes.
It still races for him.
No.
This is a bad impulse. A bad path for his heart and mind. Didn’t he already school himself about this countless times over the year since he’s been back?
He can’t keep indulging himself. Even with memories.
Kyle is gone. Kyle is no longer his. Kyle is not here.
He is gone, recites Tristan to himself as he carries the tray of eight blood martinis from the study and down the hall. He is no longer mine. He is not here. Tristan enters the circular room with the shiny green fountain. His heart still races, so he decides to repeat the words again. He is gone. He is no longer mine. He is—
“Why so dour?” comes someone from behind.
Tristan stops in place, recognizing the voice. He puts on a smile, turns to face George, who lurks at the doorway. Why, hello.
“Are you in a mood because you can feel the tick, tock, tick, tock of your tragic little life here in the great House of Vegasyn coming to an end?” George crosses the room, appearing nearly giddy. “I know you were laughing. You and Raya both, both of you, laughing as I assisted unknowingly in your twisted act … but isn’t it queer that I am in fact the one who shall laugh last?”
Tristan maintains an even voice, a blank face. I should think no one in the world dreams of hearing what your laugh sounds like.
“Did you enjoy my redecoration?”
Tristan frowns. Redecoration?
“Surely you’ve been to your tower. You always go to your tower. You and your laughing little Raya and her silly hair. Did you see? All the décor? It took me half a morning.”
He did not think it was by George’s hand, but rather entirely by Markadian’s. Was it all, in fact, real? Or did George innocently ask Markadian to touch up his illusions in the tower?
Was this not Markadian’s act at all?
“Ah, there, yes, I see it,” says George, drawing closer, his odd eyes zeroing in upon Tristan, “that realization as it blooms within your stupid irises. You ought to wear this … this stupid look more often. It betrays the innocent child you all the time pretend to be.”
Tristan thinks on all the details he saw. The yellow flowers. The chandelier. The tapestry of Markadian’s smirking face.
“Did you love the bloody rug?” asks George, drawing even closer still.
And the bloodied Persian rug.
“I thought it to be a fitting souvenir. Both for you. And for your destroyed love. And for your destroyed love’s friend.”
The sting is deep.
Bone deep.
But Tristan is masterful in deflecting bone-deep stings with his own. I wonder if your ears are red, he says to George over the blood martinis, their eyes sparkling in the green light from the fountain, looking like aliens. The directors in the ballroom were all talking about you. It seems many weren’t aware of your Feral past.
George’s smug smile withers to a thin, sagging line.
Our Lord Markadian seems to be considering your replacement as casually as you replaced the décor in my tower, Tristan goes on. It was noted how very much you love spending time wasting away in the book rooms, the store rooms … anywhere that collects dust, really.
“But it is behind me,” says George, like reciting a line from a script, robotic, emotionless. “My past … I put it behind me. It was another me … that George … another George …”
But can we really escape what we are? Can we escape what we’ve done? Tristan takes a step forward. The tray nearly presses into their chests between them. Can we escape what we’ve … drunk?
George stares Tristan down.
It’s a cold, silent, murderous stare.
One might easily miss its murderous nature, mistaking it for the same stare one makes when gazing emptily at the night sky for a certain star, or into a murky pool looking for a fish, or at a blank wall with no thought in mind at all.