Page 31 of Deadmen's Captive

“Paige will be Persephone and the ritual goes ahead tonight. I want her, Tristan. Make it happen.”

Chapter Fourteen

UNKNOWN

It's not going to be long now, Paige. I can't take this much longer. Seeing you with him, the pretty pictures of you both having coffee on your Instagram, it torments me Paige. I wish you could see how much it hurts seeing you with a man who just sees you as another pussy to sink his cock into. Someone who'll discard you as soon as he gets bored. He's not worthy of your time, Paige.

You left your laptop open on your desk today. It didn't take long to guess your password. Really, Paige? Your favourite artist wasn't a difficult guess. I read everything you'd written, your class essays, everything. I just want to know you Paige. I want to get inside your mind. To know what you're thinking. I brought up the internet browser, going through your internet history, and then something stopped me cold. The last search you instigated.

"Can a guy tell that you’re a virgin?"

No, Paige. No. You cannot be thinking of giving yourself to that slut of a man. You're so pure, so utterly perfect. I can't let you do that.

When will you realise that you’re mine? You belong to me. Every part of you. I sat down on your bed, and my fingers brushed over something silky. You wore white satin pyjamas to bed last night. I pressed them against my face, breathing in your scent, but I can’t forget about that question. It burns inside me like acid.

I stand up and lay your pyjamas out over your bed, smoothing them, as though you’re lying there waiting for me. Will you wear them for me when I come to take you Paige? I hope so. So white, and virginal. I’m so hard thinking of that tight little pussy, of making it mine. I unzip my trousers and fist my dick, thinking of it. Of how it will feel when I push inside. It’ll hurt, my sweet Paige, but you’ll soon like it. Need it. Want it.

I almost lose control right then and there, with the image of you beneath me so vivid in my mind. But I need to be patient. The plan needs to be perfect, just like you are. Like we will be together.

I leaned down onto the bed, pressing myself into the satin as I fuck my hand, imagining its your sweet little cunt I’m forcing my way into. I push my face into the silky top, sucking on the fabric, moaning and grunting as my cum spills over your clothes. One day soon, I’ll see it spilling out of your cunt, maybe even mixed with your blood. God, Paige. I’m so going to enjoy raping you that first time.

Chapter Fifteen

PAIGE

The canvas mocked me. I stood there, brush clenched in my hand like it was the neck of all my frustrations. Streaks of vibrant oils—scarlet, azure, emerald—clashed on the white expanse before me. They should've been flowers. I loved impressionism. it had been my favourite style ever since I’d seen one of Monet’s lily pad paintings as a child. impressionism was like life. From far away it looked beautiful, but up close it just looked like a mess and it was almost impossible to make out what the image was supposed to be.

"Ugh," I muttered, stepping back. "Pathetic."

I reached up and yanked the earbuds from my ears. Normally playing music while I painted was my sanctuary, but not this time. Now it felt like even the music had turned against me, each note grating on my nerves, amplifying the chaos in my head.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the ball, and now it was less than two hours away and my worries were becoming full on panic. All those people, all those masks. Anyone of them could be the person watching me.

He’d left me another envelope, there pushed under my door when I’d got back with Kate from the shopping trip. This one had been even scarier than normal. He’d seen me kissing Tristan in Blackvellyn a couple of weeks ago, and ever since then his letters had moved from flattery and adoration, to something darker. I was his, he’d written. We were meant to be together and Tristan was not worthy of me. I’d ignored them, but this one had been even more demanding. It had told me not to go to the ball, that I wasn’t safe and I needed protecting. That he would watch over me and keep me safe, but he couldn’t protect me there with so many people around.

I’d been so excited after getting my costume, and now this person was ruining it, and I hated him for that. I’d got angry this time, tearing the letter into pieces and dropping them in the bin. Kate had looked concerned until I’d told her we were going to the damn ball whether this prick liked it or not. She’d cheered me on, then disappeared back to her own room to shower.

With Kate gone, my bravado had faded, and I’d paced the room nervous and unsure what to do. Unable to find any peace, I’d come here, believing an hour of painting would help. it hadn’t, and now I was even more frustrated.

My phone buzzed and I glanced down at a message from Kate.

Where are you? Knocked on the door but no answer.

I typed out a reply and hit send.

At art room. Needed to chill for a bit. Back soon to get ready.

Get back soon! Need to make sure everything smooth and shaved in case you get lucky tonight!

I laughed and liked her message, before setting the phone down and picking up my brush again. Just a few more minutes and then I’d go. I twirled the smooth wooden handle around my fingers, my mind wandering.

It wasn’t just the weird letters. This ball was the first real date I’d ever been on and I had no idea what Tristan would expect. He’d kissed me, sure, but would he expect more tonight? And would I be able to say no? Not that I thought he’d be at all pushy, but the way I felt every time he took me in his arms and kissed me, I knew I was tempted to go further, even though I knew it was wrong.

I half thought of calling my mother, to ask her what to do, then immediately dismissed the idea. She would laugh at me, and only make me feel even worse about myself than I already did. But she’d dated, she must know what people did when they dated, and yet she’d always forbidden me from doing anything like that.

I remembered being fifteen and watching a film with her one night. In it, the woman in the film touched herself, thinking of a man she fancied, and my mother had turned it off, then slapped me across the face and told me if she ever caught me doing something like that to myself, she’d cut off my fingers. Only sluts did that, and I needed to be perfect for my husband. I’d believed her completely. She’d told me the facts of life, of course, I wasn’t completely naive, but her shifting standards were hard to keep up with and not being able to guess what she wanted from me made me nearly as nervous as it did when I was at home. At home she could punish me, and here I was safe, but I didn’t trust her, and if she found out I’d done anything she would be ashamed of, I knew I’d pay for it in the holidays.

One more year. I just needed to keep her happy for one more year, then I could get a job on the other side of the country and leave that house for good. I needed this qualification though, and if she made good on her threat and pulled me out early, I was finished. I’d be trapped there forever.

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