Page 20 of Deadmen's Queen

“He was the reason that fucker got near your room at all, Paige,” said Bast. There was a strange tone in his voice, as though he was waiting to see how I’d react. I wasn’t sure what to say. They’d hurt him because he’d put me in danger. Had they seriously hurt him? Surely, not. They wouldn't seriously hurt someone, would they? I looked up at Nate, his dark eyes fixed on mine, almost challenging me. Yes, they would, I realised, and for some reason, the thought had heat rushing to my core. My lips parted as I looked back down at the blood on Nate’s hands, and suddenly I wanted his mouth on mine. I stepped towards him, not sure what I was doing, but he turned, and walked out.

“Is he...” I started, but the question died on my lips. Tristan and Bast shared a look that spoke volumes—things were better left unsaid.

“It’s not you, Sunshine. Let him be,” Tristan murmured, his focus returning to the sizzling pan before him. The aroma of garlic and spices filled the air, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered like a bad aftertaste.

I nodded, though the image of Nate's bloodied knuckles stayed with me, imprinted behind my eyelids. There was something thrilling, something dangerous about Nate, and despite myself, I was drawn to it. I wanted to know more, but I kept quiet.

“Come sit,” Bast commanded.

“Thanks.” My response was automatic as I took the seat, my mind still on Nate.

“Paige, don't take it personally. Nate doesn't do well with touch. Hasn't since we were kids.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not something he talks about. He’s fine when he’s fighting, or if he’s in control, like at the Club, but not at any other time.”

When we were at the club… when I was restrained, or on my knees in front of him, or when he’d pinned me on his lap. When he was in control, I realised. Nate needed control as much as Bast, but there was a different quality about it with Nate. Bast preferred control, but Nate feared losing it. I wished I could ask him why, but clearly it was something very private, if even Bast and Tristan didn’t know the reason for it.

“Hey, dinner's ready.” Tristan set a bottle of wine on the table and Bast reached for it, opening it and sharing it between four glasses.

“This looks amazing, Tris,” I said, looking at our dinner in awe. The tapas spread across the table, an array of colours and smells that made my stomach growl. I reached out, snagging an olive and popped it in my mouth.

Bast gave a frustrated huff next to me, and reached for a plate, piling it high with something from each dish, before setting it in front of me.

“Eat,” he growled.

I bit my lip, then picked up a fork and dug in. Bast waited until I’d eaten four mouthfuls, before picking up a plate for himself.

“Tristan, this is incredible,” I said between mouthfuls.

“I love to cook,” he admitted. “It's like painting, but with flavours. Always trying something new. Life’s too short for bland meals.”

I took another bite and then a sip of the wine, which was delicious.

“With your skills, did you ever think about being a chef?”

A brief shadow passed over his face and he glanced at Bast.

“Well, yes, it would have been nice to go down that path, but...”

“But it’s tricky with families like ours,” Bast finished for him. “Our paths are decided for us. The Shadow Syndicate doesn't take kindly to dreams that don't align with their vision.”

I felt a chill creep up my spine at his words. It was one thing to know about the darkness that surrounded them, another to hear them acknowledge it so openly.

“Following in their footsteps is more than an expectation; it's our legacy,” Tristan added, turning back to the stove. “But it’s also an honour, and it means we’re respected by our peers and our elders. It’s a family, and we all play our part.”

Silence fell over the kitchen, and I thought about what they were saying. Their lives were elitist, and they’d never suffer from poverty, but at the same time, their lives weren't just bound by loyalty or blood—it was a web of shadows from which dreaming of a different life seemed almost a betrayal. My heart ached for Tristan at that moment. He should be free to follow his own dreams, not the future the Syndicate planned for him.

My thoughts drifted back to my own parents. They’d been forced out of this society that they put so much importance on, that had meant they wasted their own lives always trying to get back into it, but they’d put all their expectations on me to find a suitable marriage match to raise them back up again, like we were in some fucking Regency drama. I’d never been their daughter, just a bargaining chip, some prized mare. They'd never cared for what I wanted. I would only ever be a pawn to them. I knew this by heart, but there was still some small part of me that whispered if I could make a match, if I could marry someone they deemed suitable, maybe then I would matter.

Nate's appearance in the doorway startled me out of my thoughts. Dressed now in grey sweatpants clinging to his hips and a black tank top that clung to each muscle and displayed his tattoo sleeves, he was a walking masterpiece. My heart jumped at the sight of him, and I felt the spark of desire in my belly.

“Looking better, Nate,” Bast commented, an edge of jest in his voice.

“Feel better,” Nate replied gruffly, padding barefoot toward us.

I couldn't help but stare; the play of light on his inked skin drew my gaze like moths to a flame. The lines of a dragon snaked over his arm, its scales shimmering subtly as he moved—a dance of art and power.

---