Page 1 of Her Outlaw Prisoner (Vanishing With the Rebel #1)

Ronan

The yard hums with the restless energy of men who’ve been caged too long.

Some pace like animals, while others cluster in groups, talking in low murmurs and exchanging whatever scraps of contraband they’ve managed to smuggle past the guards.

The air stinks of sweat, cigarettes, and desperation. Nothing new.

Just another day at Oakdale Penitentiary.

I lean back against the rough concrete wall, stretching my legs in front of me, keeping my posture loose, disinterested. But I’m watching. I’m always watching.

A shadow moves in my periphery.

“Ro,” a voice mutters, low enough that only I can hear.

I shift my gaze just enough to acknowledge him. Benny. Small-time dealer, runs errands for whoever pays the most. Right now, that’s me. He doesn’t stop walking, just brushes past, and in that brief moment, I feel it—something small and crumpled pressed into my palm.

I wait a beat before glancing down, my fingers closing over the torn scrap of paper.

Then I push off the wall, making my way toward my usual corner—a rusted bench beneath the half-broken camera that never quite catches this angle.

Five years at Oakdale, and I know every blind spot, every weakness in the system.

I unfold the note, scanning the familiar sprawling handwriting:

Things are moving. Complications, but we’re on track. Few weeks, maybe. Stay ready—Theo.

Frustration tightens in my chest. I run a hand through my hair, gritting my teeth against the urge to punch the wall.

Few weeks. Maybe.

What the actual fuck?

I’ve been here too long. Five years of staring at the same cold walls, breathing the same recycled air, listening to the same men make the same fucking threats.

Five years of keeping my head down just enough to stay out of solitary, but never low enough to lose the power I wield here, the control I’ve fought for.

Five years of waiting for the right moment.

And now this motherfucker is telling me to wait longer. I pay a fucking fortune to keep him useful and now he says a few more weeks…?

I close my eyes, letting out a resigned sigh. There’s no use getting worked up. If Theo says to wait, then there must be a good reason. The bastard is the best hustler on the street. And as long as he’s paid, he’ll do anything.

And I pay him too damn well.

I fold the paper, slip it under my tongue, let my saliva break it down before I swallow. No evidence. No mistakes.

The tension in my muscles coils tighter. I need to hit something, need to move, need—

Movement catches my eye.

A woman is walking across the yard, flanked by a correctional officer.

She doesn’t belong here. It’s obvious in the way she moves—cautious, unsure, like she knows she’s out of place.

I scan her quickly. Light brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, wide hazel eyes taking in everything around her, soft pink lips pressed together like she’s trying not to react to what she’s seeing.

A new nurse.

I guess the greedy fat-faced warden finally got around to hiring someone new, seeing as several inmates almost lost their lives to a tuberculosis outbreak due to lack of medical personnel. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching her.

She’s small, delicate—too delicate for a place like this. Someone like her normally wouldn’t last a day in here without protection. And yet, there’s something about the way she holds herself. A quiet strength.

Interesting .

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I may not be able to control the timing of my escape, but this? This, I can control…

I glance across the yard, catching the gaze of one of the guys who owes me a favor. I give him a small nod.

He knows immediately what I want.

Time to cause some trouble.

Torres is a burly bodybuilder with more scars than anyone can count.

Definitely the right man for the job. He’s not the brightest, but he knows better than to question me.

Within seconds, he’s bumping into a hotheaded recruit from D-block, whispering something in his ear. Just like that, a fight breaks out.

Predictable.

The yard erupts as fists fly, bodies collide, and the guards rush in, barking orders. The correctional officer escorting the nurse hesitates, his attention flicking toward the commotion.

Good. That’s all I need.

I move.

It takes no effort to step into the chaos, to make sure I’m just close enough when Torres swings too wide and his elbow smashes against my brow. Pain flares, warm and sharp, and blood instantly beads at my temple before sliding down my cheek.

Perfect. Nice job, Torres.

A whistle blows. Guards shove their way into the brawl, cracking batons against ribs and dragging inmates apart. I stagger back, wiping at the blood with the back of my hand, blinking like I’m dazed.

“Hey!” One of the guards—Jones—grabs my arm, eyes narrowing when he sees the cut. “Shit. You’re bleeding.”

I don’t fight when he hauls me toward the clinic. That was the plan.

The gorgeous new nurse is still standing there, gripping the strap of her medical bag like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

Up close, I realize she’s even smaller than I thought, delicate but with something defiant in her stance, in the way she’s holding herself still despite her skin going pale.

She looks up and our gazes clash. Something flares in her eyes, an awareness that sends thrills coursing through my veins. She bites her lip nervously but doesn’t look away.

Interesting.

“Got your first patient for you,” Jones tells her, shoving me forward. I could resist if I wanted to. I could plant my feet and make him “force” me. But I don’t. I let him take me inside.

The clinic is small. Sterile. The sharp scent of antiseptic burns my nose. She moves quickly, setting up gauze and antiseptic pads on a tray.

She won’t look at me.

That’s fine.

I watch her instead.

She has soft, careful hands, but they tremble slightly as she dabs at the cut on my temple. I can feel the warmth of her fingers, the hesitant way she touches me, like she’s afraid I might snap.

I won’t. Not yet. Not at her.

“You’re new,” I murmur. My voice is rough from disuse, but it has the effect I want. She freezes for a fraction of a second before forcing herself to keep working.

“Yes,” she says quietly.

“Your name is Eleanor,” I continue, glancing at the name embroidered on her uniform.

Something flashes in her pretty hazel eyes, but before I can figure out what it is, she drops her gaze.

“Call me Ellie,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

“Why?”

She shrugs, but doesn’t look at me. “Cause everyone calls me that.”

“Eleanor suits you better.”

She ducks her head as a flush rises to her cheeks.

“Nervous?” I ask, watching her face.

“No.”

Liar.

I chuckle, low and quiet. “You should be.”

That makes her pause again. Those hazel eyes flick up, meeting mine for the first time since I walked in here. Up close, they’re even more striking. Wide, expressive. Easy to read.

Right now, they’re filled with curiosity and a hint of anxiety.

I tilt my head slightly, watching her watch me.

“Eleanor,” I say, testing her name on my tongue.

She inhales sharply, her lips parting slightly, and I see the way her throat moves as she swallows. She doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell me to call her something else.

Good.

For the first time in five years, something stirs in my chest, something unexpected. Excitement? Anticipation? I can’t tell, but whatever it is, one thing is for sure. The next few days, maybe weeks, in Oakdale are about to get interesting.

Seems like I’ll be at the infirmary quite a lot.

Eleanor doesn’t move for a long moment. Her fingers are still pressed lightly against my skin, the antiseptic pad hovering near the cut like she’s forgotten what she was doing. She blinks once, twice, then finally looks away, clearing her throat.

“I’m Ronan,” I say when she doesn’t say anything. “Ronan Callahan.”

“You should hold still,” she murmurs, voice steadier than I expect. “Ronan,” she adds, and I can hear the hint of amusement in her voice.

I smirk. “Maybe you should hold on harder.”

That makes her press the gauze against my wound a little too firmly. A stinging sensation spreads across my temple, sharp and burning. I don’t even flinch. If anything, it makes me more interested. She has some fight in her, buried under all that sweetness.

“That stings,” I say after a beat, watching the way she moves, how she focuses too hard on her work, as if ignoring me will make me disappear.

“Maybe you should avoid getting into fights, then,” she replies. I can tell she’s barely holding back from rolling her eyes.

I chuckle, a soft, amused sound. “Who says I was fighting?”

She pauses to look at me, her lips pressed together like she’s thinking about what I just said. Like she’s really thinking about it.

“You weren’t fighting?” she asks finally, voice quieter, but there’s an edge of curiosity to it.

I let a smirk tug at my lips. She’s smart. Smarter than I expected.

I don’t answer. Just tilt my head slightly, letting the silence stretch between us. I want to see how she reacts to it. If she fidgets…if she gets nervous…

She does. Her fingers tighten around the gauze, and her hazel eyes flick down to my lips before she catches herself and looks away.

Interesting.

She turns back to the tray beside her, grabbing a fresh piece of gauze. “Well, whatever happened, this will probably need stitches.”

She’s changing the subject. I let her. For now.

The only sound is the distant echo of voices outside, the occasional crackle of a radio from the guard stationed near the door. But all of that fades into the background. Right now, there’s only her. Just the two of us in this small room.

She steps closer, reaching for a suture kit. I don’t move, don’t flinch, don’t do a damn thing but watch.

She’s so damn beautiful it feels almost surreal…

“You’re quiet,” she says, almost to herself.

“Mm.”

She looks at me again. I can tell she’s the kind of person who expects people to fill the silence, to make small talk, but I’m not one for small talk. I’ve never been…

Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s trying so hard to seem unaffected, but I see everything. The way her breathing changes when I look at her. The way her fingers tremble slightly as she threads the needle.

She licks her lips.

I follow the motion.

Her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, and she quickly refocuses on her work. I almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, I sit still as she leans in, one hand steadying my jaw while the other brings the needle to my skin. The sting is sharp, the pull of the thread tight as she closes the wound. I barely feel it. Pain is nothing new to me.

But the feeling of her hands? That’s different.

It’s been five years since anyone has touched me without fear. Five years since I’ve felt someone’s hands on me without violence, pain, or some kind of cost.

She’s careful. Gentle.

I don’t like it.

I like it too much.

She exhales softly, finishing the last stitch before knotting the thread. “There,” she says, sitting back slightly. “That should hold.”

She looks at me, waiting for some kind of response. Maybe a thank-you.

She won’t get one.

Instead, I tilt my head, studying her the way I study everyone. “Why are you here?”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face.

“I—” She hesitates, like she wasn’t expecting me to ask. “I work here.”

I give her a look. She knows that’s not what I meant.

She exhales, her gaze dropping for half a second before she squares her shoulders. “It was the first job that called me back.”

A lie. Or at least, not the full truth.

A girl like her doesn’t belong in a place like this. She’s soft. Too soft. She should be anywhere but here, treating men like me.

I lean forward slightly, just enough to make her inhale sharply. “Coming here might not have been a very smart choice, Eleanor.”

Her eyes widen, and for a second, I think she’s going to shrink back. But she doesn’t. Instead, she swallows and lifts her chin a fraction of an inch. “Maybe,” she admits. “But I’m here now.”

I grin. A slow, dangerous thing.

She’s braver than she looks.

Interesting.

Before she can say anything else, Jones opens the door and clears his throat. “You done, nurse?”

She blinks, like she just remembered where she is, who she’s with.

“Yes,” she says quickly, stepping back.

He motions for me to stand, and I do, towering over her as I push to my feet. I don’t miss the way her breath hitches as I pass by.

I stop just before I reach the door. Turn my head slightly.

“See you soon, Eleanor.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk out.

And for the first time in five years, I have something new to think about. Something exhilarating.