This man—this convicted murderer, who had spent fourteen years learning to survive in a place designed to break people—had voluntarily given up access to extra food.
To mop floors. To wipe down exam tables. To walk to the supply closet so I wouldn’t have to.
He’d done this for me. Given up a coveted kitchen position, all so he could … what? Fetch gauze so I wouldn’t have to walk past leering inmates?
Protect me.
Knox held my gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you every day now.”
Every day.
The words wrapped around me like a warmth I couldn't shake off. Couldn't decide if I wanted to.
I should have been alarmed. Should have reminded myself of the thousand reasons this was inappropriate—him finding ways to be near me.
This was the part where I should set a boundary. Tell him this was too much. It bordered on obsessive, to be honest.
I opened my mouth to say exactly that.
Instead, my traitorous heart skipped.
Every day.
I was going to see Knox Blackwood every single day I worked here.
And when he looked at me like that—like I was worth giving up free food, worth restructuring his entire existence for—I forgot all the reasons I should be running in the opposite direction.
And the terrifying part wasn’t that the thought unsettled me.
The terrifying part was that I didn’t hate the idea.
The even more terrifying part? Some small, reckless corner of my heart actually liked it.
13
HARPER
The next two weeks fell into a rhythm I hadn’t expected. Knox showed up every morning, and every morning, I told myself I wasn’t looking for him.
I was lying.
It started small. A nod when he arrived. A “good morning” that became routine. But somewhere along the way, small became something else.
I noticed things. The way he always positioned himself between me and whatever door was closest. The way his voice dropped half a register when he spoke to me, softer than the tone he used with anyone else.
I noticed, and I pretended I didn’t.
Days blurred together. Knox mopping floors I’d already seen him mop. Knox restocking shelves that didn’t need restocking. Knox finding reasons to be wherever I was.
And me finding reasons to let him.
We developed our own language. A raised eyebrow from him meant,That patient’s lying about how he got hurt. A slight tilt of my head meant,I know, but I have to document what he says anyway. A ghost of a smile from him when I rolled my eyes atpaperwork. A flutter in my chest when I caught him watching me from across the room.
I told myself it was nothing. Professional rapport. The natural camaraderie of two people sharing a workspace.
I was lying about that too.
Meanwhile, Knox Blackwood behaved like the model inmate every warden dreams of.
