Page 21 of Deadmen's Queen

“Nice ink,” I said, almost without thinking.

Nate glanced at me, a flicker of something undefinable crossing his expression. “Thanks,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. He slid into the seat next to me, his eyes glancing over my face and then down at my plate. What he saw clearly passed his inspection, because he nodded and reached for his own plate.

“You ok?” Nate asked me suddenly.

“Yes, thanks.” I smiled at him, but he just nodded once, and began to eat.

I picked at my food, sneaking glances at him as we ate. He kept to himself, a fortress of solitude amidst the chatter and laughter that bounced between Tristan and Bast. Something in his quiet intensity resonated with me. It was as though I could feel his harrowing past, his turbulent thoughts, and the darkness that clung to him seeping through his muscles and into the air around us. I wanted to know more about him, about what made him so guarded, but I knew better than to pry.

“Where's Paige sleeping?” Tristan asked suddenly. “Her room isn’t ready yet.”

I frowned at him. “My room?”

Bast nodded. “We have a bedroom for your use, only we decided a couple of weeks ago to redecorate it, which is why we hadn’t asked you to move in yet. The role of Persephone is usually a live-in position.”

Ah yes, my role involved me being pretty much on call for these men to use as and whenever they wanted. The memory of the clause and implications of what that meant made me face heat.

“You didn’t need to redecorate,” I mumbled.

“We wanted it to be yours,” said Tristan. “It wasn’t right before.”

“Anyway, it isn’t ready yet, so we’ll need to make other arrangements for the next few days.”

“Well, I can crash on the couch,” said Tristan. “You can take my room, Paige.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to say I couldn't possibly displace him, but Nate suddenly looked up.

“She'll stay in my room.” He stood up, towering and imposing, his tattoos etched into his skin like battle scars under the dim light. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips; his black tank top emphasised the breadth of his shoulders.

“I don't sleep much. No arguments.”

Surprise flitted through me, chased by an odd sense of warmth at his assertiveness. The offer was stripped bare of any pretence, just like everything else about Nate—raw and unapologetic.

“But you...” I stammered out, thrown off guard by his declaration.

“I don't sleep much anyway,” he replied simply in between bites of food. “It makes sense.”

His gaze met mine, burning into me with an intensity that was as thrilling as it was terrifying. I could see a hint of challenge in their depths - a silent imploration for me to defy him, to prove him wrong. But I didn't. Instead, I lowered my eyes and nodded, accepting his words without further protest.

Nate’s declaration had left me reeling. I felt like his room was a glimpse into his privacy, his sanctuary. The thought of stepping into that intimate space made my heart flutter with anticipation.

As the meal drew to an end, I helped Tristan clear away the dishes while Bast loaded the dishwasher. Nate disappeared without a word.

“Is it ok, me sleeping in Nate’s room?” I whispered to Tristan. “I didn’t think he’d want me to, and I don’t want him to feel obligated.”

Bast turned to me with a small smile playing across his lips. “Nate doesn’t do anything out of obligation. Don't worry about it, Paige. He'll look after you.”

“It's not that,” I started to protest but then paused. What could I say without appearing ungrateful or making a fuss?

“I understand,” Bast continued, “Nate's intensity might be... overwhelming at times. But he'll respect your space. Now go and chill out for a bit, Paige. Tris and I will clean up.”

“But-”

“Now, Paige.” His tone was stern, so I set down the cloth I’d been holding and scurried out of the kitchen. I retreated to the living room, pulling out my sketchbook from my bag. I took comfort in drawing, in losing myself in the strokes of graphite against paper. The rhythmic scratching of the pencil was soothing, working through my unease like a mantra.

As I sketched aimlessly, I found my thoughts gravitating back to Nate. There was a rawness about him that pulled me in, an intensity that both intrigued and unnerved me. He was like a tempest—wild and unpredictable—a storm that promised to be as destructive as it was beautiful.

My fingers traced the outlines of the face forming on the paper—the sharp jawline, the ruggedly handsome features...it was Nate. His image had completely taken over my thoughts, though I hadn’t purposely intended to draw him.

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