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TWO

Salvatore

I’ve been patient. Too damn long. And patience isn’t something I’ve ever been good at.

Out there, before the bars and the concrete walls, I took what I wanted. Ruled with an iron fist, my name spoken in low, wary tones.

In here? Nothing changed. I made sure of it.

From the second I stepped into this place, I carved my throne at the top of this shit heap. Not through words. Not through deals. Through dominance. And blood. And fear.

Those are the currencies of power and I wield them like no other.

It’s a battle that’s never truly over. There’s always some fool who wants to test the biggest man in the yard, see if they can knock me down. But I don’t fall. I don’t break. I don’t bow.

Gray hair snaps at my temples and weaves through the former solid onyx that covered my head, but in the past two weeks I’ve taken down an eighteen-year-old prizefighter and listened to him beg for mercy.

You can’t contain what lives inside me. There is no training that gives you this kind of rage.

When I walk through the yard, men lower their gazes. The few who dare to challenge me learn the hard way that I don’t forgive, and I sure as hell don’t forget. I miss some of my former life’s luxuries on the outside, but I live well here. A bottle of my favorite blue label scotch is delivered every Sunday. My list of weekly requests taken with a compliant smile by the guards and delivered promptly by the staff.

I even got them to paint the walls of my cell emerald green. The color of her eyes.

And yet, none of it matters. None of it fills the hollow that yawns wider inside me with every passing day.

That darkness is only pushed away by her.

Lenore.

Her letters became my salvation. A tether to something pure in the filth of this place. I devoured them, memorized every teasing word, every confession buried between the lines. I let them consume me, played them out in my mind at night as I stared at the cracked ceiling, imagining her voice, my fingers clenched around my cock as I pretended it was the warmth of her touch.

Jerking off so hard it’s a surprise I didn’t send myself to the infirmary with a dislocated cock. Roaring as I shot off load after load that should have been inside her, or on her tits, or dripping off her chin.

Her words became my world,. I spent hours doing push-ups while I mapped out the things I’d do to her, the ways I’d claim her, how I’d take back the time these walls had stolen from me. She didn’t realize it, but she owned me before she even walked through that door.

Some philanthropic program where a privileged woman thinks her writing letters to a caged man would help him.

I shake my head, admiring the fear in her eyes. The way she’s blinking over and over. I note the slight pressing of her thighs together, the chewing of her inner lip.

The scent of her paper, the faintest trace of perfume clinging to the pages—those were the only moments that kept me human. Kept me from turning back into the cold-blooded bastard I’d been before her. Every time I received one of her letters, I traced her words with my fingers, imagining they were pressed against her skin instead. I thought of her curling up with a pen, writing to me, and it burned—knowing she was out there, soft and untouched by the filth of this place, while I was in here, covered in it.

And now she’s here.

She stands there like temptation itself, all soft curves and sharp wit wrapped in a red dress that hugs her body in a way that should be illegal. The fabric clings to her hips, dips at her waist, teasing me with the shape I’ve only imagined in the dark. A delicate gold necklace rests against the hollow of her throat, the tiny pendant rising and falling with her breath, taunting me. Her hair—wild, unruly, the color of sin—spills over her shoulders, begging for my fingers to tangle in it. She shifts, and the subtle slide of her dress against her thighs makes my teeth clench. She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me. But she will.

Her candy and temptation scent grips my balls and I fill my lungs with her like I’m coming up for air after a long waterboarding session. I’m gonna destroy this little girl, and she’s standing there looking at me like I’m fucking Santa Claus.

The knock at the door shatters the moment. My entire body tenses, instincts roaring back to the surface.

The knock comes again, followed by a hesitant voice. “Sir, we need to check the—”

I don’t let them finish. In three strides, I’m at the door, yanking it open so hard the idiot on the other side stumbles back. The color drains from his face as he looks up at me, throat bobbing with fear.

“You need to do what?” My rasping voice is quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that makes men regret their life choices.

“I—I—”

“You don’t need to do a damn thing.”

The guard shifts on his feet, clearly trying to find the courage to push back, but I don’t give him the chance. I step forward, invading his space, my voice low, deliberate. “You think I don’t know exactly who runs this place? Me, you dumb little fuck. Walk away while you still can.”

The man turns pale, bolting down the hallway like a scared cat. I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I slam the door shut, letting the echo of the metal punctuate the moment.

When I turn back, Lenore is staring at me, lips parted, breath quick. “You really need to work on your people skills.”

I arch a brow. “Your mother would say the same thing.”

A pause hangs in the warm air between us. A crack in the moment, forming as she spins her tongue across the front of her teeth and my dick doubles down the battle it’s having with my zipper.

That gets a laugh out of her, but then she narrows her eyes. “Wait—how do you know what my mother says?”

I smirk, stepping closer. “Sweetheart, do you really think I wouldn’t keep tabs on the woman who raised the most frustrating, reckless, beautiful pain in my ass?”

She groans. “Oh my God. You and my mother? I’m doomed.”

I grin. “Damn right you are.”

I move toward her, reclaiming the space between us, and just as I’m about to reach her—

My left foot loses friction.

In a spit second, I’m thrown to the side, a fucking little piece of clear plastic sending my hulking weight off balance. For a second, gravity takes over, but I straight arm the metal table before I hit the floor, righting myself with a grunt. I’ve never flailed before, but I think I just did.

I recover fast, but not before she gasps—and then giggles.

The sound rips through me like a cold shower, and I grit my teeth not with pain or irritation but with pleasure. Pure pleasure. My dick is sucking up all the blood in my body, wondering if she giggles like that when she touches herself, wondering what it would take to be able to hear that sound every morning when I wake up.

She slaps a hand over her mouth, clearly realizing the danger she’s in. Her eyes are wide, but I still see amusement there, and I could stare into those eyes for the rest of my life.

“You think that’s funny?” I ask, tilting my head.

She shakes her head rapidly, but I can see the tremor in her shoulders, the way she’s struggling to hold it in.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” I murmur, voice dark and edged with something promising. I take the last step forward, and she flinches as I grasp her shoulders and push her back, bending her over until the only thing keeping her from falling is me.

And then I crush my lips to hers.