Page 20 of Deadmen's Captive

The bag swung lightly now, the earlier fury subsiding as I watched her finish up. My gaze followed her every movement, each stretch and lift, all while battling the rising tide within me. She wasn't meant for this—for me. Too pure, too damn light amidst our eternal night. But God, how she made me want her. I knew, despite all of Bast’s plans and the masks we hid behind, Paige Matthews was becoming a different kind of obsession—one I wasn't sure I could control.

"Finish up, Matthews," I muttered quietly. She couldn't hear me from across the room, but as if she'd sensed my impatience, she dropped the weights with a final clang and reached for her towel. Heading for the female changing rooms, she slipped out of sight, and relief washed over me.

My shift was over and I was free. Bast would take it from here. I knew he’d be waiting outside, mask in place, ready to follow her home or wherever she went next. His play now.

Chapter Nine

UNKNOWN

Tonight, Paige, you were careless, and it made me realise just how vulnerable you really are, how much you need someone to watch over you. I know it was chaotic today in the art department with the assessments coming up, but you need to be vigilant Paige. I managed to slip into the classroom with no one realising I was there, and you were so engrossed in your painting, that you didn't even notice me standing behind you. You were completely oblivious to the world around you, with your earbuds in, that you didn't know I was there. You'd left your bag on the chair nearby, but not in your line of sight.

I couldn't help myself; I had to protect you. It was almost too easy to slip my hand into the front pocket and pull out your keys. You didn’t even notice they were missing. I hurried to the nearest locksmith and had them copied, all before the afternoon was out. I returned them, sliding them back onto your chaotic desk without a hitch. You really should be more careful, Paige. Anyone might have taken them, but luckily for you, it was me.

You're at the gym right now. I love that you take care of your body for me, Paige. It lets me have the time to sit in here and just soak in your presence. Your bed is a little lumpy though, Paige. I'm sorry for that. When you're mine, I'll buy you the softest bed I can find.

Just stepping inside your dorm felt like crossing into a sacred temple. I needed this, needed to understand you more deeply. I couldn’t resist; I went through your things, handling each object with reverence. Your books, notes scrawled in margins, your sketches, your bottles and lotions in the bathroom. They all told stories about you.

I found your laundry basket too, tucked away under a desk, filled with the sweet scent of your worn clothes. I'll admit, I couldn't help myself and I borrowed a few things. Oh, don't worry, you'll get them back, and they weren't much. Just a shirt and a pair of jeans, and a couple of pairs of your panties still carrying the faint aroma of your body. I need them to feel closer to you when I can't be near you.

I made sure everything looked like it had when I arrived. It's not time yet, you're not ready to know me yet. I'm your guardian angel, Paige, watching you from the shadows. You need someone who really cares, who understands what you need without you having to say it. And I am that someone, Paige. I'll always be watching, making sure you’re safe, even from yourself.

Chapter Ten

PAIGE

Ipushed open the door to the little art shop nestled between a bakery and a second-hand bookstore on Blackvellyn's high street. The bell above the door chimed, announcing my entrance. I inhaled the scent of fresh paper and linseed oil, a comforting cocktail that always set my mind at ease.

"Back again, Paige?" Mr. Winkler, the elderly owner with a perpetual dusting of graphite on his apron, greeted me from behind the counter.

"Can't stay away," I replied with a smile, making a beeline for the oil paints. My fingers danced over the tubes of vibrant colour, selecting the shades I'd use to bring my next canvas to life — cerulean blues, vivid greens, and a dash of fiery reds. The department always provided materials, but I preferred the quality of this brand, and wanted to build up my own collection any time I had a little cash spare.

I browsed the shelves, my mind returning again to my gym session last night, and my stomach started to churn at the memory. The man in the gym with the tattoos that had looked incredibly similar to those of my rescuer at the club, that one of the reaper’s scythe entwined with roses. It had been him, I was sure about it. I’d caught him glancing across at me a couple of times, and had moved closer to try and do the same, to decide if it was him or not, and if so, to thank him for his gallant rescue.

I’d got distracted by watching him workout, lifting weights that looked too heavy for human arms. His concentration was fierce, a sheen of sweat on his brow under the harsh fluorescent lights. I could feel the intensity of his workout from across the room. When he’d switched to boxing, I’d practically drooled over him. Something about the focus on his face, the impact of his fists against the bag, had caused my core to clench, and my underwear to dampen. He was just so strong, and so big. He’d be able to pick me up like I weighed nothing. The thought of being in those muscular arms had me aching inside, and I’d wondered if the rest of him was in proportion, my eyes dropping further down than they should.

He’d caught me looking, and snapped at me, and it had hit me like a slap in the face. My mother was right, I really was a wanton whore, desperate for men’s attention. My face had burned as I’d turned away, muttering some pathetic apology. I’d lusted over him like he was nothing but a body, and I felt awful for it. I was no different to the creep he’d saved me from in the club. I needed to get myself together, to keep control of my thoughts and not let them run riot again. Proper girls did not act this way, I thought fiercely, my mother’s voice in my head.

"Paige?"

"Sorry, what?" I blinked, returning to the present as Mr. Winkler waved a hand in front of my face.

"Lost in thought again? You artists are all the same," he chuckled, ringing up my purchases. "What's on your mind? Or should I ask who?"

"Nothing. No one," I lied, a heat creeping into my cheeks.

"Sure, sure," Mr. Winkler said, not buying it but kind enough to drop the subject.

I thanked him and stepped outside, clutching the brown paper bag filled with potential artworks. The bustle of the high street enveloped me, people brushing past in their own busy worlds.

"Oof!" I didn't see him until it was too late. I collided with a solid chest and stumbled backward.

"Whoa there, careful." Strong hands steadied me, and I found myself looking up into Tristan's concerned eyes. His curly blonde hair was tousled, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and his friendly smile had me smiling back without realising it.

"Tristan." I gasped, a flush creeping into my cheeks. "I didn't see you."

"Clearly," he chuckled, bending down to help me gather my fallen supplies. His fingers brushed mine as we reached for a sable-haired brush, sending an involuntary shiver through me.

"Thanks." I clutched the brushes to my chest, feeling exposed despite the layers of my dungarees. "I'm such a klutz sometimes."

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