Page 43 of Deadmen's Captive

I rolled my eyes. "Come on, Paige. The contract for Persephone. Everyone who steps into the role of Persephone does so willingly. You signed it when you applied for the role. You agreed to this. To all of this."

She shook her head slowly.

"I... I never signed anything, Nate. What are you talking about?"

I stared at her, my eyes locked on those sapphire blue ones that held nothing but confusion and pain. Could she truly not know? How could she not know? Bast would never have forced anyone into something they wanted, none of us would. I’d seen her signature on the contract in Bast’s office. Something felt wrong here.

She shook her head. “I’ve never applied for anything, except the university masters program, Nate. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you saying you…” she swallowed. “You all thought back there… you thought I wanted this? That I’d agreed to it?”

I nodded, my words locked in my throat. If what Paige was saying was true, she was right. We had forced her, exposed her to a roomful of men, and actually assaulted her repeatedly in front of them. We were fucking monsters. I felt the familiar cold grip of panic tighten around my chest like iron bands and the tips of my fingers began to tingle. Fuck, I was going to have a fucking panic attack. I needed to get out of here now.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. The contract, the consent—it was all part of the control, the power play that made the darkness exquisite, not vile.

"Paige," I breathed out. "You really didn't sign anything?"

She shook her head. “I swear, I have no idea about any of this. I just went to the ball…”

“Fuck!” I shouted, turning and slamming my fist into the wooden door. Pain exploded through my knuckles, but I regretted it more at the way she cringed at my display of frustration.

I sucked in a breath, trying to calm myself, but the panic was building higher.

“Look, here,” I said. I reached into a concealed cupboard, bringing out a soft black towel and laying it on the vanity. “There’s some pyjamas in the top drawer in the bedroom. Underwear too. All brand new and never worn. Are you ok getting out of there by yourself?”

She nodded.

“Ok, I’m going to go and talk to the other two, see if I can figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“You’re going to leave me here alone?” Her hand shot out, grabbing mine, damp and small, with no strength at all, except for the somersault it somehow caused in my belly. If what she was saying was true, how could she even be in the same room as me. The thought that I felt like the safer alternative, because I’d given her a fucking bubble bath, turned my insides to ice. I swallowed, and tried to keep it together for her.

"I won't be long, but I think we need to get this sorted as soon as possible." I promised, prying her fingers from mine. "And you're safe here. Nobody will come in unless you want them to." Her eyes were huge in her face, the fear in them making me feel like an utter bastard. She let go of my hand reluctantly.

"I'll be right back," I told her, opening the door and stepping out into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me.

I leaned against it for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest. What the fuck had we done? The panic rose higher and my breaths came shorter and sharper. The thought of Paige chained up on that wall, not having any idea what was happening and we’d all… I had… fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My vision swayed as the thought chewed at my insides like a rabid animal. We’d hurt her. We'd forced her into something horrifying. I stumbled forward and through the bedroom door as the panic attack took full hold, managing to close the door behind me as I slid down onto the floor, gasping for breath.

I was a monster. I'd become the very thing I vowed never to be. I’d become my father.

Chapter Twenty

BAST

The glass felt cool, heavy in my hand. I swirled the brandy, watched it cling to the sides like dark, liquid gold. The office was silent, save for the raucous sound of distant revelry that seeped through the walls. My desk, a vast expanse of polished ebony, bore nothing but the crystal decanter and Paige’s dossier, open at her photo.

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. The night had unfurled precisely as planned. The Ball, the dance, the so called kidnapping had all gone smoothly, and the ritual itself had been… delicious. She’d played the role to perfection, all purity and innocence, even her cries of pleasure were sweet and beguiling.

The Reapers had been entranced, watching every move she made up on that stage as we corrupted her beautiful body for the first time and I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. I had chosen her, plucked her from obscurity and placed her at the heart of our world.

"Perfect," I murmured to the shadows. Her acceptance into our fold had been seamless, a testament to her allure and the club's hunger for something... pure. She'd been captivating - a vision of delicate innocence swept up in our dark world. I could still taste the salt of her skin, still smell the floral scent of her hair. It wasn't every Reaper's Ball that a virgin as lovely and unspoiled as Paige Matthews graced our stage, and the depravity that had begun when she left the room was evidence of that.

The music from the feasting room pulsed like a living thing, its base throb echoing through the walls of my office. The decadence beyond that thick oak door had reached fever pitch—the sort of primal debauchery that would make lesser men blush. But not the Deadmen. And certainly not me. I was born of this chaos, sculpted by it.

With Paige's induction, something in the club had awakened, a hunger that had been lying dormant. Nate had whisked her away, but she had already become the catalyst, igniting the kind of revelry that blurred the lines between flesh and desire, power and surrender. I could hear the laughter, the moans, the clink of glass as toast after toast was made to our new Persephone.

The taking of Persephone was a rite as old as the club itself, based on the ancient Greek myth of Hades claiming the beautiful young maiden and whisking her away to his kingdom in the underworld where he kept her prisoner until she agreed to be his queen. In the first few hundred years of the Deadmen’s Club, a young local girl had been chosen by the club’s Hades, then kidnapped and kept within the clubhouse without any knowledge or consent, but thankfully, we had moved into the twenty-first century and now consent was a crucial detail. It was why the girls who played our Persephones were invited to apply, and why the contract was checked by some of the highest ranking lawyers and judges in the UK. However our rituals and rites appeared, underneath, everyone was a willing participant.

My eyes fell to the dossier in front of me. It held Paige’s detailed application form and the contract she'd signed when she’d been accepted as a potential candidate for the year, before she’d even set foot in Blackvellyn. Each year, the applications piled up, each girl vying to be our Persephone. My eyes roved over the forms, the careful vetting process we'd instituted. It wasn't enough to want it; they had to be right for us, for the club. One wrong choice, one slip, and the balance would tilt into chaos. The names that went along with the club were too important and too well known to be attributed to any kind of scandal. Aside from that, the Deadmen were interestingly superstitious. Despite being made up on the sons of the most esteemed and wealthy families from minor aristocracy as well as sons from the most prominent banking, business and political families in Britain, the rites of the Deadmen's Club, and other clubs linked to ours, set the tone for the whole year. The club was a living entity, evolving with each new Persephone and she had to fit, to stir the blood of the Deadmen, or else the year would be marked by discord and unrest.

I leaned back, the leather chair creaking in protest, and took a long drink. The Deadmen's Club wasn't just a fixture of Blackvellyn — it was the heartbeat. From boyhood, the tales of the club were whispered in our ears, the importance of what we were inheriting etched into our very bones. It was more than tradition; it was a covenant stretched tight across centuries and it was our legacy. It was a part of us, etched into our skin, both a gift and a curse. The club gave us purpose, power, but it demanded sacrifice in return. Nate, Tristan and I knew that better than anyone. We’d only been teenagers when the weight of the club’s secrets fell on our inexperienced shoulders in ways we all still struggled to deal with. It had brought the three of us together, bonded by something stronger than blood. For better or worse, the Deadmen's Club shaped us, moulded us into the men we became—the men we were expected to be by those who had gone before. Standing at the precipice of control, the thought was both exhilarating and suffocating.

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