“By your eye. Fresh scar. Right here.” He gestured to his own face, mirroring the spot. The chain rattled with the movement.
I pressed the antiseptic into his wound.
“It doesn’t look old,” he continued.
“We’re here for your injuries, not mine.”
“Guy in Cell Block D has one just like it. Said he got it from being punched by someone wearing a ring.”
My throat tightened. “You’ll need to keep these wounds clean.”
“The ring caught the skin. Left a little white line. Just like yours.”
Silence stretched between us. I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept mine on the gauze I was wadding up. On the medical tray. On anything that wasn’t him.
When I finally looked up, his jaw was working. Like he was grinding his teeth. Like he was fighting something back.
Then he did something I didn’t expect. He leaned back on the exam table, putting distance between us. Made himself smaller again, like he understood that the question he was about to ask might feel too big. His voice dropped lower. Carefully controlled. But underneath it, something simmered.
“Who gave you that scar?” It sounded like a threat wrapped in velvet.
I ignored him.
He was quiet for a long moment. “That scar have something to do with why you wanted a fresh chapter?”
I shoved the bloody gauze into the trash harder than necessary. “We’re not discussing this.”
“That’s not a no.”
“My life is none of your business.” My voice came out too sharp. Too defensive.
He studied me like my overreaction had answered every question he hadn’t asked. Then, slowly, he looked away. Gave me space. Gave me an out.
But his free hand curled into a fist. The kind that looked like it took effort to keep it that way instead of putting them through a wall.
Silence stretched between us.
Until someone dropped a metal tray outside the door. The crash was sudden. Sharp. And my body reacted before my brain could catch up.
I flinched. Hard. My shoulders jerked inward, chin dropping, hands flying up like I could ward off a blow that wasn’t coming.
Because Silas’s favorite pastime was throwing things at my head, and hearing them crash against the wall, inches from disaster, had apparently imprinted itself into my DNA.
When I forced myself to look up, Knox’s eyes were locked on mine.
Something had shifted in his face. Those eyes had gone dark. His face was tight, a muscle ticcing beneath the stubble as he just … stared.
First at me. Then the ground, his jaw flexing as he appeared to press his tongue to the inside of his cheek. Shaking his head slightly, he spoke in a low, dangerous purr.
“Takes a coward to hit a woman,” he muttered.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
A dangerous inmate at Coldwater Penitentiary had just figured out someone hurt me.
And he looked … angry about it?
That couldn’t be right. This guy was a murderer. A man who solved his problems with violence. Why would he care if someone used violence on me?
