And then, mercifully, I felt nothing at all.
42
HARPER
“Inmate down! Level-one response! We need infirmary open NOW!”
The radio crackled with urgency, and my training kicked in before my brain could catch up. I was already moving, keys jangling against my hip as I sprinted down the corridor toward the security checkpoint.
Dr. Mercer appeared at my side, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the linoleum. “What do we know?”
“Fight in the yard,” a CO panted, jogging ahead of us. “Six on one. He’s nonresponsive.”
Six on one.
My stomach turned, but I shoved the dread down deep, where it couldn’t slow my hands from gloving up as a stretcher burst through the infirmary doors.
Whoever got assaulted, his face wasn’t a face anymore. It was a topography of trauma. Swollen flesh in angry shades of purple and red. One eye completely obscured by edema. Blood matting hair to scalp, pooling in the hollow of a collarbone, soaking through prison orange until the fabric looked crimson.
My clinical brain cataloged the injuries. Facial contusions. Possible orbital fracture. Laceration above the brow,requiring sutures. Potential intracranial hemorrhage, given the mechanism of injury.
But it was my heart that noticed the tattoos first.
The intricate lines crawling up forearms. Disappearing beneath torn sleeves. Curling around a throat that was already bruising.
No.
My gaze dropped to his chest. To the pendant resting against bloodied skin.
No, no, no.
Knox.
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. Sound muffled like I was underwater. I watched Dr. Mercer’s mouth move, watched the COs transfer him to the exam table, watched his head loll lifelessly to one side.
But I couldn’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears.
Knox Blackwood. The man who noticed my scars. The man who kept showing up in my infirmary with wounds that were self-inflicted, then became an orderly, just to check on me.
My designated protector, whose heart I’d broken.
He wasn’t moving.
“Harper!” Dr. Mercer’s voice sliced through the fog. “Gauze. Now.”
I blinked. My hands were shaking.
Get it together. He needs you functional, not falling apart.
I grabbed the gauze from the supply cart, my fingers clumsy as I ripped open the packaging. The sharp scent of antiseptic burned my nostrils. Fluorescent lights were too bright, too harsh, illuminating every terrible detail of what they’d done to him.
“Bring me restraints,” a CO barked toward the door.
My head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“Protocol for high-risk inmates during medical treatment.”
“He’s unconscious.” The words came out sharp. Brittle. “He’s not a threat to anyone right now.”
