Or the one who’d taken time to make himself smaller for my sake. Who’d seemed angry—no, protective—at the very idea that someone had hurt me.
I walked to my car on autopilot, my mind churning.
He spoke to me. After years of silence with everyone else in the infirmary, he spoke to me.
Why?
And more importantly, why did some part of me want to find out?
6
KNOX
Words on a page were the only connection I had to my daughter these days.
I sat at the small fixed desk in my cell, hunched over the thin prison-issued paper, analyzing every word like it might be the last she’d ever read from me.
Fourteen years of letters, and not a single one mailed. My penmanship had improved over the years, but it still looked like a drunk toddler had gotten hold of a pen. I could only hope that someday, if Gwen ever read these, she’d be able to decipher my chicken scratch.
The concrete walls radiated cold. And the letter in front of me… it was the only warmth I had left.
“Got to say,” Ronan’s voice cut through the quiet, “it was satisfying as hell, watching the way Doyle’s goons cowered from you today.”
I didn’t look up. “They weren’t cowering.”
“Dude.” Ronan swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, the metal frame groaning in protest. “Did you see the way they backed down? If we’d been a pack of wolves, they would’ve had their heads down, asses up, tails tucked, backing away like you were about to rip their throats out.”
I kept my eyes on the paper, my pen hovering over the last line. “It won’t last. Doyle’s been wanting to challenge me ever since he arrived. This just gave him a reason to try harder.”
“He knows you’re the baddest motherfucker in this place.”
“It’s a medium-security prison.” I stared at my letter. “That’s not exactly a high bar.”
“Well, today, you just solidified the reputation.” Ronan jumped down from his bunk, landing with a thud that echoed off the concrete. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You beat his fucking ass, and you barely have a scratch on you.”
I scrubbed a hand over my stubbled jaw. The rough scratch of it grounded me, kept me from thinking too hard about the look in Harper’s eyes when she’d treated me.
Those eyes. God, they were the only other set that had ever stopped me cold. The first belonged to my daughter.
Ronan’s gaze dropped to my hands. To the gauze wrapped tight around my knuckles, already spotting through with fresh blood.
“You’re bleeding again.”
“It’s fine.”
“Does that nurse know you’re up here, undoing all her work?” He nodded toward my fists. “Because those bandages looked a lot cleaner when you walked out of the infirmary.”
I said nothing. Just flexed my fingers beneath the gauze, testing the pull of it.
Intentionally.The thought drifted through my mind. If the stitches came undone, I’d get to see her again.
Ronan studied me for a beat too long. “You know what’s wild? I’ve been your cellmate for three years. Seen you handle a lot of shit. But I’ve never actually watched you fight before today.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m serious.” He dropped onto his bunk, springs creaking. “Everyone talks about what you did to Smith like it’s a fucking campfire story. I always figured it was half-exaggerated bullshit.” He paused. “It wasn’t, was it?”
I set my pen down. Slowly. “I’m trying to write a letter, Ronan.”
