The camera allows me to follow her through every space until she returns to her bedroom and opens the box. She doesn’t destroy the candle. I knew she wouldn’t. She’s too curious, too tied to the connection she refuses to acknowledge. Instead, she sets it down carefully, like she’s afraid of breaking it, and clutches the card tightly.
“Why?” Her voice is barely audible, but I don’t need sound to know it’s filled with frustration.
I watch as she sits there, the bat forgotten at her side. The candle, the card, the scent—they’re all pieces of me, woven into her home, her life, her very breath. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. They’re not just a message. They’re a promise.
Geneva is mine.
The need to touch her gnaws at me, but I shove it aside. Patience is the result of control. And control means knowing when to wait. I may not be able to fuck Geneva yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not time for the next step in my plan.
The clanging of metal echoes through the corridor, jolting me from my thoughts of Geneva. The sound grows louder as someoneapproaches my cell. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The rhythm of the steps and the faint drag of a worn sole tell me it’s Officer Jennings. A man who prides himself on his authority but who’s insecure enough to overcompensate with posturing.
Although if we had a dick-measuring contest, he’d cry for sure.
When Jennings reaches my cell, he pauses, one hand gripping the bars while the other rests on the baton at his hip. He’s stocky, with a gut that spills over his belt, and a face that’s permanently red from alcohol consumption. His uniform is crisp, but his boots are scuffed and muddy. Attention to detail is only plausible when it suits him.
“Yard time,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”
A slow, easy smile spreads across my face. “You’re hurting my feelings, Jennings. When have I been problematic?”
His eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Don’t play games with me. We both know you’ve got a reputation.”
“Reputation?” I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “I’m nothing if not a model inmate.”
Jennings snorts, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one else is listening. “Model inmate, my ass. I’m letting you out because it’s protocol, but the second you do anything sketchy, I’m throwing your ass in the hole.”
Here’s the thing about Jennings… he talks tough, but he’s easy to read. The way his fingers twitch near the baton and the way his gaze darts to the corners of the room when he thinks I might be watching too closely tells me he’s scared. Not enough to keep him from doing his job, but enough to put him on edge. He’s not afraid of a riot or a fight.
He’s afraid of me.
And I intend to keep it that way.
“I’ll behave,” I say smoothly, rising and sauntering over to the door. “Scout’s honor.”
“You’re no boy scout,” he mutters, unlocking the door and stepping back quickly, keeping a safe distance as I walk out. “Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t want to test me.”
I flash him another smile, this one colder. “Oh, Jennings. You act like I wouldn’t kill you just for the fun of it.”
He doesn’t respond, just jerks his head toward the corridor. I follow, my pace measured, my hands loose at my sides. He’s watching me closely, his body tense, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.
As we step into the yard, the air shifts. It’s charged, but what else can you expect when there’s a large group of murderers gathered? Inmates linger in small clusters, their voices low and their gazes sharp. The sun beats down on cracked concrete and deadened grass, and the smell of sweat clings to everything.
I scan the space, my gaze slipping over the clusters of inmates with practiced ease. They’re predictable, every group adhering to their roles: the posturing thugs, the opportunists watching for weakness, and the loners who think invisibility equals safety.
Off in the far corner is a lanky, wide-eyed inmate who’s pacing, his boots trampling the grass underneath. His movements are methodical, almost rhythmic, and his fingers twitch as he walks, like he’s counting steps or running calculations in his head.
Hello again, Junior.
I watch him for a moment longer, my mind already working. He’s perfect for what I have planned. Someone like him doesn’t need to be threatened. This guy just needs the right kind of pressure, the right kind of promise.
“Jennings,” I say without looking at the guard. “You can relax now. I’m just here to enjoy the fresh air.”
He grunts in response, but I can feel his gaze on me, his skepticism hanging in the air like a challenge. Let him doubt me. Let him watch. By the time I’m finished, he won’t even realize he’s part of the plan too.
For now, though, my focus is on Junior. This one’s not a fighter by choice. He’s cerebral, but not in a way that makes him immune to manipulation. In fact, it makes him ideal.
Junior’s anxiety is a tangible thing, wrapping around him like a shroud. It’s in the way his shoulders hunch and how his gaze darts to every shadow as though expecting something to leap out at him. He’s already trapped in his own mind.
I approach slowly, unhurried, as though I’m just taking in the sun like everyone else. Junior glances up as I draw closer, his eyes locking onto mine for half a second before darting away.
