Page 44 of Deadmen's Captive

But now, Paige. She was the chosen one, the latest to join the ranks, to enter the game. It all hinged on her—on our choice. And I couldn't afford doubt, not when so much was at stake.

The brandy burned a path down my throat, its amber heat a momentary refuge. I poured another and my fingers tightened around the glass, the brandy untouched. It was a rarity, allowing myself this moment of reflection, but tonight warranted it. The taste of power was sweet on my tongue, almost as sweet as the memory of her taste. I should have been satisfied, relishing in the success of the evening. But a part of me craved more - not the brandy, not the power, but her. There was a fire within me that only she could stoke, a dark desire that clawed at my insides, urging me to claim what was now mine by right and ritual. But not yet.

Paige's photo stared up at me with innocent blue eyes. It was three weeks to the day when my father and Nate’s had come calling. It was quite common for past members to visit the Underworld, sometimes they even came to witness the rituals as guests of honour and stayed to join in the revelries. What happened in the Underworld was as dead to the world as the corpses many of these men left in their wake, though never here. The club and the university was sacred ground. My father was not one of these men. He was a businessman through and through, and while he liked tradition and accepted there were certain types of people one could not avoid doing business with, he’d never come to a social event at the club while I had been a member. This time, he had come to check on a couple of financial things with me, and to share a brandy.

Nate’s father had tagged along, being in the area, he’d said. He'd rifled through the dossiers with a predator's interest. "She's the one," he'd said, amusement lacing his tone when his gaze landed on Paige's file. His laughter was a sound that never failed to send a shiver down my spine. His eyes, those cold, ruthless eyes, had glinted as he looked up at me from the dossier.

"It's not your decision to make," I'd reminded him, my tone cutting through the thick silence.

His laughter had ceased abruptly. "I'm just giving you friendly advice. She's got something... unique," he'd said, tapping Paige’s file with the end of his cigar. "Pauline’s daughter. Think you can handle her?" He asked me then. His tone was casual, but the question was a gauntlet thrown down. A test I was meant to pass - or fail.

I had given him nothing more than a nod, the ghost of a smile on my lips, but the memory soured in my mind, mixing with the brandy and the unsettling feeling of being manipulated. Nate’s father had always given me the creeps as a kid, and even as a grown man, his presence unsettled me in a way I could never put my finger on. I had thought as my height surpassed his, and the hours working out had given me the body of a strong and powerful predator, that I would feel less ill at ease in his presence, but it had never changed.

My father knew of my feelings about the man, and had admitted he didn’t particularly like the man but insisted that Lord Carver was not someone you wanted to fuck about with, and that whatever he was, he was loyal to the Shadow Syndicate, the umbrella organisation that the Deadmen’s Club was a miniscule part of. It was an organisation that stood outside of national or international law, controlling interests in business, finances, politics and crime across the world. A group of shadow men who ruled the world through their dark spider webs of influence, murder and intelligence. This was my destiny. Nate’s and Tristan’s too.

"We all have our roles to play, Bast," my father had told me many times, his dark eyes sombre. "You must not let personal feelings cloud your judgement. Remember, we are judged by the strength of our alliances as much by our own actions."

His words echoed in my mind as I thought about my most recently made alliance and the way she’d come apart under my tongue. I smiled at the memory. We chose our Persephone, not them. No matter how much they hinted or prodded, no matter how much they thought they could control us. Paige was our choice, and our woman. No one else was allowed to touch her. At least, for the rest of this year. After that, she could be whoever she wanted to be with the money and connections the club would give her.

I frowned as I thought back to the ballroom, and the man she had been dancing with when I’d cut in. I’d recognised him immediately as the guy she’d been talking to in town that afternoon, and cursed myself for not knifing the sneaky bastard when I had the chance. My jaw tightened, thoughts swirling as I remembered the way his hands had been on her, proprietary, confident. As if he had a right. As if he were more to her than a fleeting dance partner. I loathed the idea of anyone else touching Paige.

A low growl rumbled from deep within my chest. I rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor as if reflecting my agitation. Pacing around the office, I tossed back the rest of the brandy in one go, letting the liquid fire course down my throat, injecting a semblance of calm into my raging thoughts. First thing tomorrow, I’d have a Reaper track him down and… no, on second thoughts, once I found out his name, I might pay him a little visit myself and explain the situation. I wanted to make sure he was real clear on who Paige belonged to from now on.

My grip on the glass tightened. Ownership wasn't just business; it was primal. Paige now belonged within the club's—within my—realm. The thought of another man's gaze lingering on her, his hands possibly tracing the curves I had claimed, ignited something raw inside me. It was an intrusion, a challenge that demanded a swift response.

I remembered how she looked tonight, suspended on the wall, the soft glow of the candles flickering across her vulnerable form. Her chains had not just bound her; they symbolised a transformation—a surrender to the darkness of the Deadmen's Club. She had been enticing in that position certainly, but chains were more Nate’s thing than mine. I preferred my girl on her knees, crawling to serve me, my every whim, her total desire. Ultimate submission.

I smiled. I didn’t think it would take me long to break Paige. I would have her crawling at my feet before Christmas. A shiver traced my spine as I imagined her kneeling before me, eyes lifted, the defiance that so intrigued me melting into wanton acceptance. Yes, that would be a sight to behold, a victory sweeter than any conquest my father could engineer.

The memory of her skin lingered on my fingertips and her taste in my mouth, not even chased away by the brandy. The way she had come apart under my tongue had even my iron control wavering. I could have chosen to take her then. It was my right, as Hades, but there were more nights ahead, more trials, more rituals, and that moment would be much sweeter after she had the time to anticipate it. After she had been taught to pleasure me the way I wanted her to. After she learned to crawl for me. I had a feeling she would be worth the wait.

I jerked up in my chair as the door suddenly swung open without a knock. Tristan stuck his head around the door, face serious.

"Nate's losing it. Outside. Now."

I was on my feet in an instant. Nate’s steel control over himself and his emotions was rival only to my own, but I had known him a long time, and every now and again, something came out of the darkness of his past to haunt him once more. His panic attacks weren’t new to us, but he would be uncontrollable if he thought anyone other than me and Tristan had seen him vulnerable.

"Where's Paige?" I snapped, as I followed Tristan into the hall.

"Bedroom," he shot over his shoulder.

I followed Tristan down the hall till we rounded a bend and came on Nate sat with his back against the polished panelling, his chest heaving, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Shit."

"Nate," Tristan called, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Nate flinched, eyes wild and unfocused.

"Easy there, mate." I said, sinking onto my heels in front of him. "You're not back there. You're here. With us."

Tristan crouched down beside him, speaking in low, soothing tones. But Nate didn't seem to hear him. His breathing was too fast and too harsh and his eyes had an unfocused, haunted look about them. He was somewhere else entirely, caught in the grip of a memory that refused to let him go.

"Get him to the office," I commanded, my voice tight.

Tristan nodded and gently tried to coax Nate up. But he was resistant, his body stiff as if locked in battle with unseen demons.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath. This corridor wasn’t often used, but it wasn’t private either. Anyone could come down this way and see Nate in this state.

I nodded to Tristan, and we moved to each side, hauling him up between us, he might be a couple of inches shorter than me, but the man was broad shoulders and all fucking heavy muscle. We half-dragged, half-carried him down the hall to the office, panting all the way. We lowered Nate onto the leather chair nearest the door. I closed the door and locked it.

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