Page 70 of Deadmen's Queen

PAIGE

Idabbed my brush into the dark green, dabbing it onto the canvas. Leaves and branches took shape under my hand, bold against the stark white. The art room was still my sanctuary. A place where I could almost forget that one of my friends was missing. It had been three weeks since Amy had officially been designated a missing person. Her parents had thought she’d gone to Vanessa’s for the holidays, and had received several texts from Amy’s phone, which had since been traced to the university campus. Vanessa was convinced Amy was going home, and no one had seen her since the last night of the term. Posters had gone up around the university, and her photo dominated student’s social media. It was blazed into my mind now, her soft brown bob perfect as always, her blue eyes staring out at you from the picture, only emphasised by the blue velvet jacket which was what she'd been wearing the last time she'd been seen. Her disappearance had thrown a sombre mood over campus, and Bast’s protective nature had gone into overdrive. I knew for a fact at least one of the guys would be sitting outside the art room while I was here, and going out for a drink or shopping with Kate always involved one of my guys tagging along behind, which restricted our chat a little.

I paused, smiling at the thought that they were my guys. Four months ago, I would never have dreamed I would find someone who cared about me as much as they did, and now I have three of them. Bast hadn’t said the words, but I knew from the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, that he cared way past his responsibility as Hades. He’d even given me the option of cancelling the hunt if I didn’t feel safe enough, but I’d insisted it go ahead. We had no idea if Amy’s disappearance was connected to my stalker at all, and he seemed to have gone very quiet.

I was also secretly enthralled by the idea of the hunt. Bast had explained that I would be taken somewhere in the thick forest surrounding Blackvellyn. My challenge was to avoid my pursuers until sunrise. The Reapers challenge was to hunt me down and take me captive. It was supposed to represent Persephone’s failed attempt to escape the Underworld in the myth, and Bast had strongly implied I wouldn’t succeed and that I would be “punished” appropriately. Even standing here in the well lit art room, I shivered with anticipation at the thought, dark desire curling around my belly.

“Good afternoon class.”

My professor’s voice cut through my thoughts, bringing me back to the present, and I turned to see her entering the room with a smile.

“Don’t mind me, I thought I'd come and check up on what you’re all up to, and to answer any queries you might have. Carry on, and I’ll come to each of you in turn.”

I turned back to my painting, trying to eye it critically as she would. I’d moved away from my normal flowers and my current work in progress was a Georgian manor house in the snow, with pine trees and a white sky. Tristan’s house. I had the idea that I might give it to his parents as a gift to thank them for having me over the holidays. If they liked it, of course. They might think it was rubbish. Even Tristan wouldn’t understand how grateful I had been that night not to have to go home.

Nate had been upset after our time together, realising that in his fathers house, he couldn’t look after me the way he really wanted to. I’d taken a quick shower in his bedroom, but I'd been emotionally and physically drained, and my head throbbed. Nate had sat and combed through my hair with his fingers to make it more presentable, and had discovered the still healing wound on my head from my mother’s actions a couple of days previously. He’d demanded to know how I’d got it, and exhausted, and emotionally spent, I hadn’t had the energy to lie, so I’d told him.

To my surprise, he hadn’t shouted or punched anything. Instead, he’d looked at me, his jaw clenched for a moment, then took his phone out and ordered Tristan to take me home with him. I’d hadn’t fought him, despite being worried I’d be a burden, and I was so glad I hadn’t. I’d sent a text to Mum, saying I wasn’t coming home, and then to my own surprise, I hadn’t spoken to her since. No more checking in phone calls at night, no more texts. I’d heard nothing from her either, and the first week, I’d been terrified of her just showing up. She hadn’t, and gradually I’d relaxed back into my life at Blackvellyn without the feel of her shadow hanging over me. It felt like something very close to freedom.

“Paige?”

I turned to see Professor Drake approaching.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” I said, wiping my hands on my apron.

“Afternoon Paige, did you have a nice holiday?”

I thought back to the ten days of amazing food, warm company, walks in the snow with Max, snowball fights and being woken up every morning with Tristan’s mouth or cock between my legs, and I nodded, blushing a tiny bit.

“It was lovely, thank you.”

“I'm glad. I hope you’re well rested and gearing up for the showcase next term.”

“I think so.” She smiled at me and turned to look at my painting, taking her time to scan every detail.

“Interesting,” she murmured finally.

My stomach knotted. Not good enough. The story of my life played out on canvas.

She looked up at me, and smiled. “Don’t look so down, Paige. It’s beautiful, and technically, it’s almost perfect. Your detail is exquisite, it’s just…” she turned back, her eyes moving over the canvas, then looked back at me. “It lacks something.”

“Lacks what, Professor?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“It’s a beautiful scene, but I just don't feel anything when I look at it.”

“I don't understand,” I said, looking at the painting.

“Art is not about creating pretty pictures. It's about expressing yourself, your emotions, your thoughts...your story. When I look at this painting, I see a beautiful house. But what I don't see is any emotion. Any story. Sometimes when painting we must forget what our mind thinks and let our heart speak.”

“But...my paintings are always like this...”

“And that's the problem Paige! You're a talented painter but your paintings seem...detached. As if someone else was painting them.” She paused for a moment, then added softly, “You need to put yourself into your work. This doesn’t say anything to me about who you are.” Her eyes met mine—kind but firm. “I want you to dig deeper. It needs more of you.”

“More of me?”

“Your experiences, your emotions,” she pressed. “Put them on the canvas. Let them scream, let them whisper. Just make them feel.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say.

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