Page 53 of Depraved Devotion

It’s fucking frustrating. But I admire the strength of her resistance.

After she confronted me over Mason’s death, I thought I’d pushed too hard. Dug too deep. But Geneva, however rattled, didn’t break.

Even so, it’s time for a change in strategy.

I sit up on my bed at the sound of footsteps approaching. The gait is distinct, a familiar cadence with a subtle drag every third step. There’s a slight hitch in the rhythm that most wouldn’t notice.

Ah, the perks of being a genius.

Duncan Carr is his name, the guard that drags his left foot. I clocked that when I first arrived and stored that tidbit of information, along with every other observation I’ve made about this place and the men inside it.

The uneven gait is the result of an old injury, most likely picked up on the job. Carr tries to hide the discomfort, but every time he steps down on it, the skin around his mouth tightens. All it would take is one well-placed kick and he’d go down faster than a prostitute getting on her knees for a dollar.

Most people don’t understand just how much they reveal in the smallest, unguarded moments of their lives.

Carr appears outside my cell a moment later. The package in his hands is at odds with the masculinity of this place and the man holding it. The box is a pure white, decorated with a Bordeaux-colored ribbon that’s gathered into a large, voluminous bow on top. To complete the look, there’s an ivory card, snuggled underneath the strips of silk.

“You have a package,” Carr says.

I offer a lascivious grin. “Oh, boy, do I.”

“Notthatkind of package, you pervert.”

“Rude.”

The guard lifts the box. “This one.”

When I make no move to retrieve the delivered item, Carr frowns. “What is this anyway? You going to tell me?”

I shrug, taking on a neutral expression. “That depends… Are you going to come with me to deliver it?”

Carr grips the box a little too hard. The ribbon flutters with the movement, the deep Bordeaux bow absurdly out of place against the backdrop of cold metal and grim concrete.

He frowns. “Deliver it?”

“I didn’t stutter.”

“You think this is funny?” he asks, a thread of nervousness weaving its way into his tone.

“Funny?” I give him my best wide-eyed innocent look. “Notat all, Officer Carr. Just trying to gauge how far your job description extends. Carrying my little gift all the way to its intended recipient? That’s above and beyond the call of duty, don’t you think?”

He shifts his weight, the faint drag of his left foot betraying him once again. “Your recipient better be in this prison, or I’ll—”

I shoot to my feet. “Or you’ll what?”

Carr jerks back at my sudden movement, his eyes widening with alarm. Before he can fully process the idea of me threatening him, I rush to the door with a speed that makes him suck in a breath of disbelief. The sound of my palms slapping metal as I grip the bars is sharp and his gaze snaps to my hands.

A costly mistake.

“Or you’llwhat?” I repeat, my voice low, dangerous, curling around him like a noose.

When he shifts his weight, his focus still on my hands, I lift and extend my leg through the bars. The sole of my boot now rests against his left shin, right below the knee on the spot where his old wound lingers, an unspoken weakness.

The second I apply pressure, his composure shatters. Carr’s face twists in pain, and he stumbles back, the box in his hands nearly slipping from his grip.

“Be careful,” I say, my tone laced with amusement as he struggles to right himself. “Wouldn’t want you to drop that. It’s fragile, you know.”

Carr’s breathing quickens, his shoulders heaving as he regains his balance, but the damage is done. He’s not looking at me with the usual disdain, but with something deeper. Fear. Not the kind that keeps you up at night, but the kind that makes you piss yourself before you start sobbing.