The scenery along the roads in the south of France was beautiful this time of year, an artist’s dreamscape of pastels. I pushed the pedal to the metal on the tiny sports car as I zoomed down the winding streets. I pulled up to the villa as the sun reached up to its high point in the afternoon.
Zane didn’t stir when I came inside the unlocked door. He sat near the window before a canvas, his paints spread out before him. I watched him work in silence for a few minutes.
He was shirtless, how he often preferred to paint. There were smatters of the primaries across his toned chest. I watched his muscles flex and relax as he worked, just as I had done for five hundred years. The sight of his talent in motion still made my breath catch. I watched his fingers map out the details of my features
