Slammer

“This might sting a little, Mr. X.” She smiled sheepishly.

She was right. Her smile stung me somewhere deep. Some place I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge for a long time. One I couldn’t afford to retain. It was too soft—too sensitive for a place like prison.

I didn’t like it. She needed to go.

CHAPTER 3

LYLA

HE WAS HARD. His body was like granite and just as carved and beautiful as a Greek statue. Later, when I was home, alone and safe, I’d be ashamed of every lustful thought I had over the inmate in front of me, but in that moment, I couldn’t think logically. I tried to keep my hands from shaking, but it was like they had a mind of their own. All they could think about was the feel of his muscles beneath them.

Dr. Giles was across the room, patching up another inmate. He wasn’t paying me any attention, and I was deathly afraid I was going to do something wrong.

Taking this job wasn’t a great idea. The more X stared at me, obviously trying to rattle me, the more nervous and unsure I became. His emotionless eyes moved over my face without blinking. He could see my fear, or at least smell it. Predators could sense terror, and this man was the epitome of one.

I schooled my expression and silently begged my hands to settle. Shaky hands made my fear obvious, and we weren’t supposed to show we were afraid. Already, I was failing.

After cleaning his wound, I examined it. It was deep. Even though I knew he had to be in an immeasurable amount of pain, he didn’t flinch. Not even when I packed the wound tightly with gauze.

My eyes moved over his body, taking note of the many scrapes and scars that marred his skin. He was everything Dr. Giles said he was—an emotionless monster out for blood—out for death. His arms, chest, and sides were like a tribute to his violent tendencies. The tats running down his back and arms did little to hide the scars that graced his body.

It was obvious he was in a lot of fights, considering the marks on his body. Moving my eyes over his flesh, I counted over fifteen wounds, all healed over, and some more than once. My hands trembled again slightly. It wasn’t from fear, but out of curiosity. I wanted to run my fingers over his skin and feel the ridges and bumps of his scars. I wanted to know if I touched them, could I feel the pain behind them? Would he allow me to feel his pain?

It made me wonder how many fights he’d been in to have so many scars, and those were just the visible ones. It made me wonder why he’d been in so many and how he’d managed to stay alive each time. I thought about a lot of things I probably shouldn’t care about, but that didn’t seem to stop the questions from producing one after another.

“How’s that feel?” I asked, hoping to deter his attention.

His stare made me feel tiny and insignificant. As if I weren’t good enough to clean the blood from his wounds. Maybe I wasn’t. Perhaps I wasn’t yet good enough at this job, but I had to get better. I had to work so that I could live. Because of that, I wouldn’t give up. At least not yet.

He didn’t respond to my question. Instead, he nodded his head and lowered his eyes, allowing me a brief reprieve from his heated stare. I took a deep breath while I could and continued to work.

He seethed from his seat, hate pouring off him in waves, as his eyes shifted around. They landed on another inmate across the room and they locked eyes, staring death and daggers at each other. If it weren’t for the two COs standing between them, they’d be killing each other instead of sitting there promising death with their expressions.

I stitched him up, my needle piercing his skin and closing the gaping wound. He sat stoic as if he were in no pain, and I was in awe of him in that moment. I couldn’t handle a paper cut, much less a stabbing. Yet, it was nothing for inmate X. He didn’t flinch or make a single noise. He sat as still as stone, glaring at the other inmate, and obviously plotting his death.

When I was done, I cleaned his wound once more and bandaged his leg. I noticed his thighs were almost as big as I was as I wrapped one tightly, making sure to apply lots of pressure. Moving to get the tape, I accidently brushed against his knee and he stiffened, scaring me and making me drop my supplies.

I kept my eyes on his as I leaned over and snatched the tape from the floor. The side of his mouth twitched like he was seconds away from laughing at me. The asshole was getting off on my fear, and it kind of pissed me off.

My brows pulled down in anger as I stood and finished securing the bandage. I was angry. My hands were no longer shaking and my pulse was rapid, but not because I was afraid. I was pissed off. Who did he think he was?

As I straightened my back, my green eyes locked with his royal blues. I refused to blink even though he stared at me intently without wavering. He obviously wanted to see my fear, but I wasn’t having it. Although I was freaking out on the inside, I had to prove to him I could handle this—that I could handle him.