ChapterOne
WILLOW
The sound of creaking floorboards has my pen stopping midstroke. I tilt my head and listen. I hear the wind against the loose gutter that I’ve been meaning to fix for weeks, and the familiar hum of the refrigerator.
I’ve lived in the old cabin for a few years now. At one time, it was my childhood home. When my grandparents passed, I moved back, enjoying the quiet more than the city.
It’s pointless to live in the city and still feel all alone. Out here, I can enjoy my peace and not have to work a handful of jobs to cover my share of rent with a random roommate. Being here gives me the freedom to do what I’ve always dreamed of but never had the time to do before. Now I can write to my heart's content. Besides, I’m not so lonely anymore.
When I’d been researching for my next book, I stumbled onto the site Write an Inmate. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but one profile stood out to me over the rest. I thought,what the hell, I can try it out. It might be fun and interesting.
What I didn’t predict was getting two for one. Cash was the profile I clicked on that day, months ago. His mug shot was one of the scariest pictures of all of them. He was staring flat into the camera, no fear, no performance. Simply waiting. He filled the frame, shoulders hunched forward like he was too big for the pose they made him hold. The tattoos crawled up his neck from the prison jumpsuit collar, and that scar, white and jagged, cut through his eyebrow down to his cheekbone. It was strange, but I had the urge to trace it with my lips.
I’d touched myself that night, thinking about him. The shame came later. The arousal, however, never left. The next morning, I’d written to him, and it took him no time to respond. That’s when I found out it wasn’t only him; it was his cellmate Damien too.
Damien was a stark contrast to Cash. He looked like he belonged in a different century. He was a handful of inches over six feet and was leaner than Cash. He had the kind of body that was built for endurance.
In his mugshot, his face was all angles with sharp cheekbones, hollowed temples, and a jawline that looks carved. Dark hair fell past his ears and almost into his eyes. It looked slightly unwashed. He’s grown it out in prison and refused to cut it. A small rebellion, I’m sure. Damien always pushes the edge to see what he can get away with.
His prettiness is almost unsettling, and he knows it. He uses it when he needs to play harmlessly. He's not harmless. The arrest record says assault, fraud, and two counts of extortion. He smiles more than Cash but means it less.
Another creak sounds, this one different. This one has weight to it. Everything inside of me goes utterly still. My eyes move to the letter I was in the middle of writing. It sits half-finished on the worn kitchen table.
“Low Low.”
There is only one person who calls me that. Cash was the one who gave me the nickname. His voice is gruffer than I’m used to over the phone, thicker.
He can’t be here. It’s not possible. He’s in prison.
The creak of the floorboards grows closer until a shadow falls over me. The size of it swallows the single kitchen light overhead. My hand trembles, and the pen rolls out of my fingers to hit the table before rolling off. This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming. I fell asleep while writing, and this isn’t real.
The floorboards under my bare feet vibrate with his weight, and I can feel it settling behind me. It lets me know he’s just as big as I thought, possibly bigger. And that he is very much here. I’m not dreaming. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his body behind me.
"You wore your hair down today," he murmurs.
A callused fingertip brushes the nape of my neck, one slow, proprietary drag that parts a few strands before he touches my neck. My pulse jumps against the pressure of his thumb where it rests just beneath my ear. It’s like he’s counting my heartbeats. The size of his hand makes me feel so, so small.
Cash leans closer, his warm exhale curling against my skin. "It’s not safe for a young girl to be living out here all alone. You can’t even see the house from the road. It’s all but forgotten. The perfect mark."
There’s a secret moan that catches in my throat. It’s the one I only let out when I’m alone in the dark with my hand between my legs. When imagining exactly this. A stranger. A violation. The loss of control I craved yet hated myself for craving.
"Please," I whisper, but I don’t know what I’m asking for.
Cash's hand slips from my neck, and I feel it move down my spine. His touch is slow and deliberate until his palm settles on the small of my back. He presses me forward, bending me over the kitchen table until my cheek meets the cool wood. My breath comes out in shallow gasps, but I don’t dare move.
"Stay," he commands, the word as rough as gravel.
His other hand goes to my hip, fingers digging in with enough pressure to bruise, to mark. He drags my oversized cotton shirt upward, and his breath hitches when he sees that all I have on underneath is panties.
"You knew," he growls. "Some part of you knew I'd come."
I shake my head in denial, but my body betrays me. There’s a wetness that’s already formed between my thighs, making my panties stick to me. I’m ashamed of the way I arch into his touch instead of away from it.
Cash's hand moves lower, tracing the waistband of my panties. "Every night, Low Low. Every night I pictured this. You. Under me. Too scared to scream, too wet to pretend you don't want it."
His fingers slip beneath the fabric, but a sound coming from the hallway catches my attention. Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Cash doesn't stop. Doesn't flinch. His hand keeps tugging at my panties.
Then a voice comes smooth as silk over broken glass.
