Page 30 of Deadmen's Captive

I imagined her in lace and velvet, her protests turning to moans of surrender. The thought was intoxicating and I longed for the moment when I could see her on her knees, looking up at me with wide eyes, dressed only in what I chose for her.

Tristan had been so right, though I would never admit that to him. He knew me too well. If anyone else knew me as well as he and Nate, I would kill them. But this time he had been right. Paige was the only choice. Untouched, unspoiled. A virgin in more ways than one – not just her body, but her life, her experiences, all waiting for my corrupting touch. The idea of her, so pristine and yet so ripe for ruin, sent a dark pleasure curling in my chest. To take someone like Paige – someone raised to be admired from afar and never sullied – and to mark her with my own brand of depravity, it was a prospect too delicious to resist.

She turned again, worry dancing across her face as though she could read my very thoughts and see all the dark delights I had in mind for her. I slipped into a doorway as her friend came and grabbed her by the arm, tugging her forward towards the sanctity of the coffee shop. As I glanced back around, my chest tightened.

They were talking to a man. A man I didn't recognise, but it appeared that Paige did. She smiled up at him, and that iron fist twisted in my gut again. How dare she smile at him? She was mine. Ours. She would learn quickly that her smiles were only for us. As were her tears and her moans.

At a practised movement of my hand, one of the concealed blades I always carried slid down between my fingers, the handle sitting comfortably in my hand. I tightened my fingers around it. The metal nestled against my palm—a familiar weight, a promise of retribution. If this man dared to touch her, he wouldn’t make it halfway down the high street before he bled out, and he wouldn’t even see me coming. I wanted to get closer to hear what they were saying, but there was nowhere closer that I could loiter and not be spotted, so I hung back, my eyes fixed on this intrusion on my property.

He gestured down at her bag and she glanced down and then smiled up at him again, no doubt telling him about her costume. The costume I had designed for her, had made to her exact specifications for our ritual. For me. And yet, there she stood, sharing pleasantries and talking about it with some nobody who dared to soak up her attention.

Infuriated, I clenched my fist around the handle of my blade, feeling my anger burning through my veins, heating up my body. It was primal, possessive and raw. I had to control it.

Mine, I thought again. The mantra pounded through my bloodstream, a relentless drumbeat echoing my possessive need. Paige was mine, and this man had no right, no claim, to stand so close, to bask in the glow of her presence. Before I could boil over, he stepped away with a casual wave and set off down the street.

He was lucky. So damned lucky. With every step that wastrel took away from her, the tension uncoiled from my muscles. The knife, now an unnecessary ally, returned to its hidden sheath. I allowed myself to exhale, a momentary release of the anger that had risen within.

"Idiot," I growled to no one in particular. He had no idea how close he'd come to drawing his last breath. A part of me wanted to follow him, to make sure he understood the boundaries he had unknowingly crossed. But my focus remained on Paige as she disappeared into the coffee shop. Soon, Paige would understand. She'd learn her place in this twisted game we played. She'd be dressed in silk and lace, her body and soul laid bare for my indulgence. And my friends.

"Patience," I whispered to myself. Tonight, Paige Matthews would begin to understand just what it meant to belong to Sebastian Blake.

I waited a moment, to make sure the intruder did not return, and then turned, heading back down the street the way we’d come. I pushed open the door to the costume shop, closing it behind me. The owner looked up as I entered, and I saw the familiar fleeting expression of fear cross his face before he managed to mask it. I ignored it.

"Did she take it?"

"Yes," he said. "She loved it."

"Good. Show me."

The shop owner hesitated, then reached under the counter and brought out a digital camera. His hands shook as he fumbled with it, searching for the right image. I waited, trying not to let my impatience get the best of me.

"Here," he muttered, turning the camera to face me.

My eyes flickered briefly over the image of my Persephone, captured on the tiny screen. The sheer white fabric fell in soft folds around her golden curves, nipped in at the waist by the golden belt. The neckline hung low between her ample breasts, revealing the basic white bra she’d been wearing. I hoped she’d go without tonight, that she felt daring enough to chance it. The skirt of the dress seemed demure at first glance, falling to the floor, but there were slits up either side that would reach the belt. I wondered if she’d notice. I was already picturing her sat on my throne, her bare legs parted wide, the sheer fabric falling between her legs to cover that which only I and my DeathKnights were permitted to see. The folds of the bodice would easily be pushed aside to reveal those delectable breasts. I felt myself growing hard just thinking about what I would be doing to her in that dress.

"Good job," I said, my voice laden with dark satisfaction. The man seemed relieved by the praise, his anxious eyes brightening momentarily. This was the kind of fear I relished. The kind that whispered of power and control. Tonight, Paige would know this fear too.

"Memory card."

My voice came out cold, detached, as if I wasn't burning inside. As if the sight of her didn't make my blood sing with ownership. I wanted to reach through the picture, pull her into reality and claim what was mine.

"Of course." He popped it out with trembling fingers.

I took it from him, and handed him an envelope of cash.

"Thank you, Mr Blake" he said, but I was already turning away.

The door closed behind me with a soft click. I stepped onto the pavement, the memory card between my fingers. A flick of my wrist and it skittered across the concrete. I crushed it under my boot, grinding the plastic into the pavement. One twist to ensure its demise. They couldn't have her image. She was mine alone.

"Option 3 will be Persephone," I typed into my phone. "Costume sorted. Send confirmation to the Reapers."

Send.

My thumb hovered over the screen, waiting for the vibration of acknowledgment. It came, two short pulses against my skin. Done. The game was set.

Paige wouldn't know what hit her. Tonight, she wouldn't be just a girl in a coffee shop. She would be Persephone. My Persephone. I'd waited for this moment, orchestrated it with precision. In my world, nothing happened by chance. Paige Matthews, with her untamed hair and paint-stained clothes, had no inkling of the transformation awaiting her. A metamorphosis from independence to utter surrender beneath my command. Whether she wanted it or not.

I called Tristan next. He answered on the third ring.

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