“Told you she was fucking hot.” Mark’s eyes did another lazy tour of my body, like he was memorizing me for later. For what, I didn’t want to know. “Talk of the whole block.”
My stomach turned to ice water. In a place full of violent men with infinite time and limited entertainment, being “talk of the block” was probably a death sentence delivered in slow motion.
Fake it till you make it. Do not show fear.
“Move. Aside,” I repeated.
“Relax, darlin’.” The tall one stepped closer, bringing with him the scent of cheap deodorant and desperation. “Just being friendly.”
“Do not call me that.”
The employee handbook had a whole section on verbal harassment. It said nothing about kneeing someone in the testicles, but maybe it should.
“You know,” he continued, “there are lots of places in this prison where people can … disappear for a while.”
The threat hung between us like a noose.
“The officer will be back any second.” I tried to step to the right, but he matched it. Blocked me. Again.
Mark laughed, a sound like grinding gears. “Maybe. Then again, this place is pretty understaffed.” His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. “Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.”
Fear coiled in my chest, cold and familiar. I hated it. Hated that my body still remembered how to be small, how to brace, how to calculate the distance between a man’s fist and my face.
I was so sick of being afraid.
“This is your last warning. Move aside,” I demanded.
“Or what?” The tall one invaded my space, probably expecting me to retreat.
Fuck. That.
I stood my ground, even as my heart tried to claw its way out through my ribs. Even as every instinct screamed at me to run. I was done running.
He reached for my face, his fingers inches from my cheek when, suddenly, a hand clamped around his wrist.
Knox Blackwood’s hand.
He’d moved without sound, without warning, materializing between me and the threat like violence given form. His broad back now blocked my view, shoulders rigid beneath orange cotton, and I watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he squeezed the other man’s wrist. Not enough to break. Just enough to promise he could.
“Back. Off.” Two words. Low. Deadly.
The corridor went silent.
Peeking around Knox, I saw the way Mark went pale, the way the tall one tried to jerk free and failed.
Knox didn’t let go. Didn’t move. Just stood there, a wall of controlled fury, holding the man’s wrist like it meant nothing.
Likehemeant nothing.
“I ain’t afraid of you, Blackwood.” But the tall one’s voice cracked on the last syllable.
Knox tilted his head, and something in that small gesture made the temperature drop ten degrees. “You sure about that? After what happened yesterday?”
Silence stretched like a blade.
Then Knox released him.
The tall inmate stumbled back, clutching his wrist. Mark was already sinking onto the bench, eyes fixed on the floor. Neither of them looked at me anymore. Neither of them looked at anything except their own shoes.
