Walk away, I told myself. It’s not your problem.
But his words kept coming. Graphic. Detailed. The kind of plans that came from experience and honest intent.
And I thought about Stacy Morales. She’d been in my Economics class freshman year of college, back when I thought I’d have a normal life. Quiet girl. Sat in the front row, always had her notes color-coded. Then, one night at a frat party, some piece of shit decided her body belonged to him.
I saw her three weeks after it happened. Watched her flinch when someone dropped a textbook. Watched her make herself small every time a man walked too close.
That was years ago, and I still remembered the hollow look on her face.
This nurse, whoever she was, could be someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s Stacy.
And Doyle wasn’t all talk.
A few years ago, he’d assaulted a female correctional officer. Got time added to his sentence, sure. But not nearly enough. Should’ve been shipped off to max security with the rest of the animals. But overcrowding. Budget cuts. The usual bullshit.
He stayed.
Worse, he eventually “earned” back privileges, like working in the infirmary as an orderly.
Which meant he had access to this new nurse. Time alone in the medical wing with her while the guards rotated in and out. And knowledge exactly how and where to strike.
He’d do it again. It wasn’t a question ofif. It was a question ofwhen.
“Knox.” Ronan’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Don’t.”
Evidently, I was already leaning.
“She’s probably got a tight little?—”
“Shut your mouth.” My words were low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made smart men nervous.
Doyle’s head swiveled toward me, and his grin widened.
And there it was. The flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
I’d seen that look before. Doyle had been gunning for me for years. In prison, there’s always an alpha. Someone the other inmates respect, fear, or both. For better or worse, that someone was me.
Doyle wanted my spot. And the fastest way to become said alpha was to take down the current one.
“Well, well. Blackwood finally speaks.” He tilted his chair back on two legs. “Go back to your breakfast. This doesn’t concern you.”
“I hear one more word out of your mouth about that woman, and I’m reporting you to the guards.”
Doyle’s laugh was ugly. “Go ahead. File your little report.” He spread his hands wide, mocking. “You know how long those investigations take? Two weeks minimum before anyone even reads the paperwork. Three before they interview witnesses.” He leaned forward, eyes glittering. “That’s twenty-one days, Blackwood. Twenty-one days where she’s alone in that infirmary. With me.”
My blood ran cold.
“And that’s if they take it seriously at all,” Doyle continued, clearly enjoying himself.
“You’ve attacked a woman before. They’ll take it seriously,” I snapped.
“Maybe. Then again, when I tell them you’re just trying to look good for your parole by making up a story where you look like a hero, they might not. Either way, you know how short-staffed they are. By the time anyone looks into it, I’ll be done. And she’ll be …” He trailed off, letting the silence fill in what his words didn’t.
This was something else that made Doyle uniquely dangerous: the guy didn’t seem to care about time being added to his sentence.
Ronan’s grip tightened on my shoulder. “Knox. Don’t let him bait you.”
But Doyle wasn’t finished.
