Page 4 of Deadmen's Captive

She stepped forward, grabbing my hands and dragging me closer to the sofa, turning me this way and that. My father watched in a silent stupor, his eyes roving over my body with a cold detachment that made my skin crawl.

"Well?" my mother urged, her tone impatient. My dad grunted, shifting on the sofa to get a better view.

"She's got potential," he said finally, his voice rough. She released me,and I stumbled away, covering my chest with my hands, tears of shame running down my face.

“But would she be fuckable? To your lot?” my mother asked, an odd level of excitement in her voice. "Is she any good?"

My father’s eyes locked onto mine again, his hand drifting to his trousers, adjusting himself. "Yes," he murmured. “I’d have fucked her."

A twisted sense of triumph filled my mother's face. A smile formed on her lips, cold and calculating. "There’s potential for her to be a good investment then," she mused."You hear that, Paige? You can stop being utterly useless and pathetic."

I nodded, trying not to look over at my father as he rubbed at his crotch, his eyes fixed on the hand that covered myself from him. I felt sick.

“Good. We have some work to do. Go and get a shower and get dressed. I’ll make you some breakfast and then we’re going shopping.” She moved closer and I flinched, but she ran her fingers softly down the side of my face and her tone softened. "You're young, but you'll learn. To be proper, to be... perfect. For them."

"Perfect," I whispered.

“Yes Paige, we’re going to make you perfect. Now go.”

I didn't need telling twice. I hurried out of the room, glancing back just as my mother dropped to her knees in front of my father.

She looked up at him, smiling. “We have a chance.”

He nodded. “If you say so, Pauline. But I imagine it’s going to cost me, so now you either open your fucking mouth, or you get her back in here.”

I ran the rest of the way to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

Chapter One

PAIGE

The afternoon sunlight poured through the high windows of the art room, bathing my canvas in a warm glow that seemed to ignite the colours on my palette. I paused, sucking on the end of my paintbrush as I studied the shapes I’d sketched out in sienna. It was definitely starting to take shape now and I could probably start adding some colour in the background. I whirled the brush around in the beaker of turps, and blotted it on the rag set there for that purpose. My eyes flicked over the colours on my palette for a few moments, before I dipped my brush in, pulling three colours together to get the shade I wanted. I swiped my brush across the canvas, a streak of pale blue with a touch of lilac interrupting the white space. Although there were four other students in the art room, they were just as absorbed as me and it was quiet except for the music in my earbuds, a perfect backdrop as I worked. It might have only been a couple of weeks since I started at Blackvellyn University, but the art room was quickly becoming my favourite space. After years of painting in my tiny bedroom at home, with bad lighting and no space to spread out, the light airy art room was like a balm to my soul and I was already spending every free minute I could in here. It was nice not having anyone complain about the paint splatters on my clothes either.

When my mother had told me I’d been accepted to the prestigious private university of Blackvellyn on a full scholarship and onto the masters art program, I’d been stunned. She always insisted on keeping me close to home, and hadn’t let me apply for anything other than the local art college, which had been lovely but had never pushed me.

My career choice had always been a bone of contention between us, which was why I’d been shocked she’d sent off an application and my portfolio to Blackvellyn. I wanted a career and she’d always thought I was wasting my time and should be trying to find a rich husband, the thought of which sent chills down my spine. I’d spent enough of my life being controlled by someone who dictated where I went and what I wore.

When other students had been out partying or even just hanging out, I’d been dragged around to salons and beauty pageants. I hadn’t even thought they were a thing in the UK, but apparently they were and my mother was obsessed with making me look and act like a proper lady. I always had to be perfect. We hadn’t had the money to send me to a “proper” school, but she’d trained me herself, making sure my manners and speech were impeccable for her tastes, and my grades had never been allowed to drop below an A. Swimming, gym and yoga had been regimented, and although I knew it kept me strong and healthy, I’d enjoyed slacking off since I’d got here.

I’d never tell her, but I’d eaten burgers and fries at least three times this week, and enjoyed them immensely. I'd run out of money now though. It had been meant for makeup, and I'd spent it on junk food and just skipped the makeup. She'd be horrified. Although she’d finally managed to get me somewhere she thought I could find a suitable husband, it had meant I was no longer under her watchful eye, and I intended to make the most of it for my year here.

“Paige?”

A deep voice next to my ear made me jump and my brush skidded across the canvas, leaving a jagged streak of green where there should have been blue. Cursing softly under my breath, I turned my music down and looked round to see who had interrupted me.

“Oh,I’m so sorry. I did say hello, but I don’t think you heard me over your music.” David Warner, an assistant in the art department, stood next to me, his eyes on my painting. I subtly moved sideways. I liked the guy but he had this weird thing of standing too close. I don't think he even realised it, but it made me uncomfortable. He didn’t seem to notice.

"Looking good, Paige," he said with a nod towards my painting. “You happy with it so far?”

I flashed him a grateful smile, setting my brush down for a moment.

"Thanks. Yes, I am actually. It's still rough, but it's getting there," I replied, wiping my hands on my apron. I wasn't sure how much David knew about art. He'd worked here for nearly ten years apparently, but although he was referred to as an assistant, he was more like a cleaner and maintenance guy, cleaning up after students, and ordering more supplies when we were low. Most of the other students never spoke to him, but he seemed nice and a little lonely, and I always figured it cost nothing to be kind. There wasn't enough kindness in the world.

"That's the beauty of art, isn't it?" David mused, his eyes still on my canvas. "It's a journey. A process." He glanced over at me, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. "Speaking of journeys, how are you settling in?"

"I'm good," I admitted, a genuine smile warming my features. “My dorm is nice, and I've made friends with a few girls on the same corridor, so that's been great.”

"I'm glad you're finding your place here," he said, glancing at last week's canvas. "And your inspiration. Beautiful use of colours as always. You have a real talent."

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