Page 74 of Deadmen's Captive

David pushed off from the door, his movement fluid like shadow play. "Sure, they do." His eyes hadn’t left mine, and there was something in them—a flash of concern or maybe disappointment—that made my stomach twist. "But that’s good," he said. "Because Tristan and his friends... they're trouble, Paige."

"Trouble?" I echoed.

"Bad news. The kind you steer clear of." He leaned in, concern creasing his brows. "You deserve better than that crowd."

"Thanks for the heads-up," I replied, though a little spark of defiance sizzled within me. No one got to tell me who was bad news—not anymore.

"Seriously, Paige—"

The rumble interrupted him, a deep growl that vibrated against the windows. We turned as one towards the sound. Outside, a blacked-out Range Rover slid to a stop, its presence ominous against the backdrop of wilting autumn leaves.

"Looks like your ride is here," David muttered, a tinge of distaste curling his lips as he peered through the glass.

"Seems so," I said, watching as Bast stepped out of the driver's side. His figure was imposing, even from this distance—dark jeans, black leather jacket, authority oozing from every pore.

David's frown deepened. "That's Sebastian Blake, isn't it?"

“Yes, he’s here to pick me up.” I crossed over to the sink and began to wash my hands.

“I see.” David smiled at me. “Well, you have a good time, Paige and I’ll see you later.”

“See you later, David. Have a good weekend.” He nodded and left the room and I took a deep breath as I dried my hands. David was a nice guy most of the time, friendly and caring, and a good artist, but every now and again he got a little too intense. I suppose I wouldn’t have minded if I was interested, but I felt no attraction to him at all and I didn’t want to encourage him.

I made sure my station was tidy, and turned the lights off. The door swung open, startling me. My heart skipped a beat as I met Bast’s intense dark eyes. I felt a flutter of nerves, yet there was something magnetic about him that drew me in.

"Paige," he said, his voice low and rich. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest and watching me silently.

For a few moments, he just watched me. Those dark eyes studying me silently from where he stood. It wasn't an unnerving gaze; it was just intense, as if he were looking not at me but into me. His gaze slid from my face to the paintings behind me, lit up by the light flooding in from the hallway and the dying light from the windows.

"Is this your latest work?" He asked, gesturing at the garden scene blooming on my canvas.

"Yes," I responded quietly, tensed as his gaze flickered from the painting back to me.

I watched as his eyes took in my paint-splattered dungarees, lingering on the swatches of colour adorning my hands. He reached out and picked up one of my painted canvases, examining it closely. His touch was surprisingly gentle for someone who demanded such fear and respect around campus. "Your work... It's beautiful."

I blinked at him in surprise. I wasn't used to receiving compliments from anyone other than David. "Thank... thank you."

He set the canvas down and stepped closer to me, his presence filling the room with a tension that made my heart race. "Why do you paint?" He asked suddenly.

I shrugged, looking down at the splatters of paint on my overalls. "It's... it's freedom, I guess," I replied quietly.

"Freedom?" His voice was laced with curiosity.

"Yeah," I looked back up at him, meeting those cold dark eyes. "When I'm painting... I'm in control. It's just me and the canvas."

I found myself trapped once more in that intense gaze. This close to Bast, it was impossible to ignore how handsome he was - dark hair, high cheekbones, and a firm jawline that added just the right amount of edge to his beauty. I could feel the heat radiating off him as he stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne; a blend of cedarwood and spices that was intoxicating.

"You've got something," he said suddenly, reaching out and brushing a thumb over my cheekbone. There was a smear of cerulean blue where he had touched.

His touch sent an electric jolt through me; I bit my lower lip to keep from gasping aloud. His thumb traced a path down to my lips before retreating. I was rooted to the spot, my pulse pounding in my ears.

His eyes slid back onto my current work and he cocked his head to one side.

"What are you painting now?" he asked, coming to stand beside me.

"A garden." I murmured.

"Interesting." His lips turned into a smirk of amusement as he looked back at me.

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