I’d had time to think. And it had been a mistake to feel anything for Knox.
In fact, it annoyed me that after he touched my hand, I’d thought about that touch every moment since. It annoyed me that it somehow felt more intimate than any touch I’d ever experienced in my life. It annoyed me how that single point of contact felt like a spark lighting some kind of wildfire inside my soul.
But most of all, it annoyed me because despite every effort to the contrary, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
And my traitorous body wanted more.
I was better than this. Smarter than this. In fact, let me count the reasons I could not, should not, feel anything for Knox Blackwood:
One: He was a prisoner. A killer, for God’s sake.
Two: I didn’t believe in second chances. Someone showed you who they were, believe them, and all that.
Three: I needed this job. I could get fired if I did something inappropriate.
Oh, and let’s go ahead and add a big fat number four: Knox had found out about my abusive ex.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool. This was fine. Everything was fine.
“Silas is your ex,” he said.
No question. A statement.
I shot him a death glare. “I’m not talking about this.”
My gaze cut to the lone surveillance camera down by the entrance. We were far enough that no one would see us. Or hear us talking, if the camera had audio.
Fingers found the inside of my thumb, rubbing in that old, anxious rhythm.
“He hurt you,” Knox said. The edge to his voice would have made grown men cower. “He’s the one who gave you that scar.”
I said nothing. Just held his gaze, refusing to break.
“He’s the one who makes you flinch.”
My shoulders crept up half an inch before I could stop them. “Do you seriously think I’m going to tell you about my past?”
“You already told me.” His voice dropped, low and lethal. “He laid hands on you. How many times?”
“This conversation is over.”
Something flickered across his face. Not pain. Not fear. Something darker. He stood perfectly still, watching me with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
“What’s his last name?”
I laughed. “Yeah. Not telling you that.”
“Why are you protecting him?”
“I’m protecting my privacy. Not him. There’s a difference.” I crossed my arms. “And FYI, I don’t need anyone else solving my problems.”
“Problems?” His voice was barely controlled. “You call a piece of shit who laid his hands on you a problem?”
“I’d also call a nosy inmate a problem.”
Knox’s fingers stretched out slowly, one by one. Not cracking. Stretching. I’d noticed him do that before. It meant his patience was thinning.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
