The marks crisscross my wrists where the string rested. Some hairs from the twine are caught in the wounds, a gateway to infection. I need tweezers to pick them out, antiseptic to cleanse the injuries, then gauze taped in place to prevent further exposure.
I’m an expert in wound care. Years spent living with a heartless psychopath taught me that much, at least.
The memories of my ex drag my thoughts even further down. I can’t be bothered to stand, to move, to let this stranger who stole me out of my life now care for me as a sop to whatever remains of his conscience.
“If you can’t get those packages to my son today, he’s dead.”
I doubt he cares but I’m not going to shoulder the responsibility for this one alone. Not when I did my best, following every instruction they gave to me.
The very least this man can do is take his share of the blame.
“Why do the Rangers want to kill him?”
My eyes flit up to his face, then I turn back to examining my knees. It hurts to look at him, so similar in age to my son. So strong. So confident where Josh is easily influenced, vulnerable to the predation of other men.
The trait that led him where he is now. In prison, serving time for other men’s gain.
He was caught holding the bag, everyone else scattering when the big drug meet turned out to be a police sting. Instead of winning the approval of his higher ups with a high-value operation, he’d lost them hundreds of thousands. Money he couldn’t repay. Drugs he couldn’t return.
Keeping his mouth shut while serving his time wasn’t enough to take the sting of that loss away.
My breathing speeds up, lungs clutching smaller as I think of how easily they could end his life. A fact the gangland friends who visited me explained in great detail. Details they used to bend me to their will.
Well, at least this is a fuck-you to their desires. Turns out even the most persuasive threat isn’t an equal match to the universe’s hatred of me and my son.
Because what else would land me here but fate. The same fate that destroyed every other part of my life, no matter how good I tried to be, how faithful, how obedient.
“He cost some powerful men a lot of money.”
Malakai stares at the floor for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he shakes his head. “Come through to the bathroom,” he repeats, turning on his heel. “You’ve got a few hours grace while the prison’s locked down. There won’t be much information getting in or out.”
I grab my underwear from the end of the mattress and drag them on, smoothing my dress back into place until it doesn’t look like anything happened.
The corridor smells green and wet, mould growing along wallpaper in spotty black designs as intricate as any pointillist painting. I follow the faint sounds of movement, finding Malakai next to the sink, examining the packets for breaks before gently submerging them in water, and washing them clean.
“I found Dettol,” he says, nodding to the bottle of antiseptic. “You’ll have to use my shirt to apply it.”
The wounds offer me a slight distraction and I pick out the few strands of caught twine using my fingernails before pouring the liquid on them, wincing against the sting.
“My friend will be here soon,” Malakai adds like we’re colleagues having a normal conversation. “Once I’ve sorted things with him, we can talk about Josh.”
I frown, not liking to hear my son’s name come from this man’s mouth. But that’s just silly. I should be grateful he cares at all.
He doesn’t care. He’ll use all the information you give to control you.
My inner critic is probably right. A pity she doesn’t offer me an alternative path to choose instead.
“Why did you untie me?”
Malakai’s eyes narrow as they briefly meet mine, then return to the task in front him. He swallows and a host of emotions flitter across his broad face, ending in a confused frown. “You’re not running, are you?”
“Did you want me to run?” My throat heats to burning as I think of the words he whispered to me, the dirty game he outlined. The one that, in the heat of the moment, I wanted to play.
His face broadcasts an answer. An expression of yearning, of a deep-seated thirst that isn’t yet slaked.
My gaze moves down his body, seeing the strength in his muscles, imagining the stamina if he were to give chase. I see twitches, tension as if he’s testing out scenarios in his mind.
I clear my throat, appalled by where my thoughts have taken me. “Are you finished with me?”
