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In romance books, the girl gets away with everything while the guys dote on her and affectionately stroke her hair. So not fair. Fiction is starting to annoy me with all its misleading inaccuracies.
“I’m apparently a child of the Devil. Games are just a part of my genetic makeup. I’d apologize, but I don’t have the ability to feel guilt,” I state dryly. “Now, were you my first? You seem a little territorial over my vagina right now.”
Those moody sons of bitches. I think being moody is secretly their balance, despite all that other drivel about leashing emotions that Gage was going on about in the third trial. I need a handbook: How to Sync Mensies with Your Harem.
I can’t make it too easy on them. I mean, after all, I had to die to get them to trust me. They at least need to work for it. I bet that’s in the How to Control Your Harem guidebook. I bet the old, incurably vain me wrote it.
“We weren’t doing well at all. We just found ways to supplement something we didn’t know was missing.”
“Thousands of years of memories are just gone. Memories of who we were, how we came to be, and what we once shared. A bond that left powerful echoes throughout time…the entire world envied us, even as they feared us. All of that’s just someone else’s story now. That Paca and those horsemen really are dead.”
Figures they’d be soothed by The Apocalypse, and I’d be soothed by the Four Horsemen. We’re rather horrible people like that.
“You’d all really rather sleep in your own rooms because you’re mad at me, and suffer through those nightmares, than to have to share a bed with me? I thought you were simply being petty, but you must truly hate me to knowingly put yourselves through that,” I say on a strained whisper. “All because I wandered off to try and learn more about myself while the four of you plotted your own plan behind my back? Do you not see the hypocrisy, or do you just find my thoughts and needs to be completely irrelevant? Am I still really that insignificant?”
“So when is it not too soon to point out that your ‘badass’ fight clothes are skirts?” I ask the guys, no longer interested in the gaping crowd around us who are still on their bellies. Four dry looks are my response. “Because that’s simply fascinating,” I go on, my grin only growing.
Rough. Dirty. Devilish. That’s all the attention I’ve had from them thus far. Nothing ever as tender as this.
It’s like howler monkeys crawled up a gorilla’s ass and had a dinosaur baby that fucked a radioactive Godzilla…and had an even worse baby. If any of that makes sense.
I’ll be damned if they touch her again. It’s time to pay Hell’s Black Heart a visit. I’ll face the nightmares we’ve all quietly been avoiding. I won’t ever feel this helpless again.
