"Use him… kill him after if it doesn’t work."
I shove my things into my bag and, with one hand, navigate on my phone’s map.
"Where are you going?"
"To the prison."
The air feels heavier as I drive through the towering gates, opened for visitors. A stark building looms ahead, its cold concrete walls lined with razor wire, standing firm against the outside world. Inside, fluorescent lights hum softly, casting a sterile glow over the rows of metal chairs in the waiting area. An uniformed officer at the front desk reviews paperwork, his expression neutral. I hand over my identification as soon as he asks for my name. Emptying my pockets of everything, I pass through a metal detector.
"Name of the inmate you are visiting?"
I stare at him for a while, hesitant. "Nox…"
He laughs. I have a feeling he knows him. "Alright. You have 30 minutes. No touching!"
Beyond the checkpoint, a corridor stretches ahead. The smell of disinfectant lingers, mixed with something faintly metallic. I reach the visitation room. I sit down, my bag on my lap. At least I am not alone. Two women are crying, while the other three seem too bored for what is about to come. I start picking at my red nail.
"Nightshade."
I look up at him, standing in front of me. Clad in just gray sweatpants, his hands are shackled in front of his impressive body. Light catches on his inked skin, tracing intricate designs across his arms, chest and on the muscles of his abdomen. Revealing the hard lines of muscles beneath swirling patterns of ink.
Those pants on him.
Veins ripple beneath his skin on both arms.
"Bat boy." I swallow.
His smile is warm, effortless—the kind that instantly makes you wet. It starts slow, a gentle curve at the corner of his lips, before spreading fully, lighting up his face. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. Maybe it’s the way he tilts his head. Maybe his fangs and me wanting them inside my skin.
"You came."
"You literally told me to be here." My gaze crawls across his chest, a canvas of sculpted strength. The contours of his arms ripple with power, each muscle a testament to his size. He is a towering presence, an impressive blend of force and darkness. He once told me his tattoos are the last words or actions of those whom he has killed. He is fully covered in them. That means… His gaze hooks in mine, a magnetic pull I can’t resist. He can see I’m staring. "Are they out of shirts?"
"Boxer briefs, too."
I roll my eyes. "Listen to me…"
"Like a good boy."
"Nox… I mean it!"
He leans into the metal chair. His handcuffed arms on his lap. "I adore how you say my name—a blend of desire and hate."
I lift myself, thumping the table with my bag. Everyone’s attention falls on me.
"Stay… please." His voice is more of a whisper.
I ease back into my seat, dropping my bag onto the nippy linoleum.
"Good girl."
I move closer, my breasts colliding with the table’s edge.
"Nox, I swear on my Coven, if you get out of here, I am going to fucking kill you!" My posture shifts—arms crossed, a slight lean into the cold chair, I tap my fingers on my arm, my leg bouncing, betraying my impatience.
I want to climb on this table, sit on his lap, and strangle him with a cord made from the fluttering creatures that batter my insides.
"What’s wrong?"
