Page 11

FOUR

TURN AND FACE THE STRANGE

KORVIN

R epositioning myself against the wall, I watch closely as two men dressed in all white carry a large leather sofa from the direction of reception toward the center of the ward where the three hallways meet.

Based on the few and brief interactions I’ve had since coming here, I know they aren’t taking it to the staff apartments.

Those are in the opposite direction and behind multiple card accessed doors, which means the little pamphlet we got wasn’t some drawn up bullshit to put us new residents at ease, and they’re actually making some sort of common room.

I look around my cell, my apartment as the guards have been calling it, and wonder how the hell I got here.

When I got locked up all those years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever be anywhere but a maximum security prison, stuck in a 6’ by 8’ twenty three hours a day until I finally kicked the bucket.

Then one day, I go to my court mandated therapy session and the doc asks me if I’ve ever heard of Blackhurst Ridge.

Who the fuck hasn’t?

Everyone who’s lived in Illinois for more than twenty minutes knows about this place. The old asylum has quite the reputation between its history and current standing, and the fact that it’s been the center of dozens of ghost stories I’ve heard since I was a kid is the icing on the cake.

I have no idea why I’m here, though.

Then again, maybe I do.

I’ve never once admitted to what I was locked up for, never accepted responsibility for my actions, and I guess maybe by some standards, that makes me certifiable.

I’ve owned up to killing my mother, copped to Charles Harden’s death, and I’ve even blatantly confessed to killing multiple cell mates over the years, but beyond that, I won’t claim any bodies I didn’t rightfully earn.

Fuck that. Murderer or not, I won’t fucking lie, no matter what kind of deal anyone thought they could get me.

Not that it would have worked, anyway. The Harden’s had a wide fucking reach, and there was no point in wasting my time trying to convince anyone I was innocent when they were being told I was guilty by someone with the power and influence to make them believe it.

Which is why it’s so fucking weird that I’m here.

I didn’t ask for this transfer, I didn’t know anything about it until the prison shrink told me it was happening, and once I got here and found out more about the treatment I’ll be receiving, it seemed even stranger that I was moved.

But I was, and I guess part of me is grateful while the rest of me is skeptical as hell.

Short of a kitchen and normal front door, calling our cells apartments isn’t that far off.

It’s pretty big, several times the size of the place I spent the last few years in, and if you stand in the doorway and look into the cell, it definitely has a more homey vibe to it.

It’s bare bones right now, and apparently we have to earn things like decor and the fucking walls to section off the bathroom, but this isn’t anything like the other prisons I’ve been in.

The simple fact that we can earn things is different.

Even on good behavior, I was treated like a piece of garbage, so at some point I gave up trying.

Now? If I manage to coexist with the other residents without incident, if I put some effort into therapy or whatever treatment they try to use on me, I can have shit like books and a TV, possibly even access to a computer or something.

I can have furniture in my room, a real bathroom that’s private, all kinds of things that I haven’t even dreamt of since I was a teenager.

I wonder if they’d give me a mask.

Probably not, I’m sure they’d still want to be able to see my face no matter how well behaved I was, but there are potentially tons of other options.

I’m really hoping they’ll let me see Maisie.

“Cool it, Hawthorne.”

I drag my eyes from the window—it might be twelve inches thick but it’s a fucking window—and turn to where I can hear the guards escorting one of the men from the transfer down the hall.

“I was only asking for a little assistance, gentlemen. You’ve got me in these pretty little bracelets,”—I can only see his hands that are cuffed together and chained to his waist as he lifts them—“and when a dude’s nuts are stuck to his damn thigh, they’re stuck.

If you won’t’ help a guy out, you get to walk with me while I do a fucking Irish jig.

You can also let the doc know that our mandated outfits aren’t very forgiving in the crotch, therefore resulting in sticky balls. ”

I frown as the first guard comes into view, chuckling to himself a little while the other rolls his eyes. “Sticky balls? Really?”

“Oh, come on.” Hawthorne, I’m assuming, stops and thrusts his hips forward, motioning to his junk the best he can.

“You can see everything , including the way my sack is stuck to my thigh. This is not the kind of impression I’d like to make on the nice lady who’ll be giving me my injections.

” Then he turns and looks into my cell, a mischievous grin on his face as he arches a brow at me.

“Then again, maybe I can find someone else to help me out.”

Arching a brow right back, I nearly crack a smile for the first time in god knows how long as Hawthorne blows me a kiss and continues his jig down the hall.

When I was in isolation, the only people I saw were one of three guards, my shrink, and the prison primary doctor.

That was it, and I didn’t talk to any of them—therapist included—the last four years I was there.

I haven’t had a real conversation in even longer.

I killed my last cellmate when he tried to assert his dominance, and after that, it seemed pointless.

So, no talking, definitely no smiling or laughing, nothing but my own thoughts and the occasional letter from my sister they deemed appropriate.

Being here has the potential to change that, if the treatment I’ve been reading about is legit, and I don’t really know how to feel about it.

Considering the men I’m up here with and the fact that they must be here for similar reasons to why I am, it’s even harder to get a read on things, and I hate that after all the time I’ve spent getting fucked over by the system, I’m actually trying to be hopeful this will be different.

Like, this time, maybe it’ll work out and even if I’m not sent back out into the real world, I’ll have a more normal life while I’m stuck in this one. A normal life with frequent and wanted human interaction.

But who knows.

Hawthorne could have been plotting the annihilation of the entire floor, starting with my murder, or he could have been getting comfortable because he’s in the same boat as me.

Either way, I have no idea what to expect from him, or this place, and the fact that it’s trying to let a little hope take root is a scary thing that I can’t let get out of hand.

“You’re next, Severe.”

I get to my feet as the same two guards stop outside my cell, both of them calm until I’m at the door.

No one seems to realize how big I am until I’m right up on them, and while it’s obvious these guys are alphas—who else could guard murderers—I dwarf them the same way I do most people, and they are instantly on edge because of it.

“Hands,” the one on the left says as he slides open a small panel that’s level with my waist. “Just for now.”

I frown as I reach through the opening and allow them to cuff me, and I almost ask what that means, but decide not to.

“The goal is not to have to use these.” The guard on the right attaches a long chain then holds it tightly while the other starts to slide open the bullet proof glass door. “Like the muzzle. No one wears shit like this at home, you shouldn’t have to either.”

The other chuckles as he walks in with the shackles for my ankles. “Well, some people do, but I doubt their reason for it is the same.”

I almost smile at that, the second time in as many minutes where I’ve felt the urge to even try, and I’m sure if they knew about my history with masks, it would make it harder to stand here without cracking one.

I’m too skeptical, too curious to let my guard down enough to start laughing at jokes or warming up to people.

Besides, I’ve only been here a week and a half.

By this time anywhere else, I’m usually on my second cell mate or already in isolation.

Everything that’s happened, everything I’ve seen and heard could still be a load of shit and they’re just waiting for me to get comfortable before they pull the rug out from under me.

But my curiosity has gotten the best of me so far, and it’s why I stand still while one of them shackles my ankles and the other hangs onto the chain outside my cell until that’s done.

“I’m O’Brien,” the guard next to me says as he pulls the links through the panel and wraps them around my waist. “And that’s Stevenson.”

He nods as he walks in and helps make sure everything is connected and restrictive without being painful or totally immobile.

“You’ll see us the most, we pull sixteens during the week, but there are two other guys who work the night shift, and four who only work Friday night through Monday morning. ”

They keep talking as we walk into the hall, explaining how the nursing staff is set up similarly, how the doctors are always here but we only see them during the week.

O’Brien and Stevenson give me the names of the other prisoners, the residents—I’m never going to get used to that—as we walk, pointing behind me for Bishop Rooker and Hawthorne, Lochlan Rooker is on the other side of me, St. James across from him, and Sokolov at the end, who’s also across from an empty cell like I am.

I don’t look into their apartments as we pass but I can feel them looking at me.

Oddly enough, for a ward that should be so full of alpha energy and murdery vibes we should all be suffocating in them, it’s pretty fucking calm.

Something else that makes me wonder if the other guys living here are in similar situations as me.

Not that they were locked up for some shit they didn’t do, I’m sure they’ve earned their places here just like I have, but that they’re at a point where they’re more curious and skeptical than anything else, and just want to get through this shit without incident.

Do I think that means the second they start letting us mingle in the common areas we’re all going to be best friends and not try to, at the very least, kick each other’s asses?

Hell no, we are all alphas, and we are all murderers, something like that is bound to happen, but no one seems to be chomping at the bit to get their hands on anyone yet.

“This is Nurse Hubbard,” Stevenson says as we stop at the nurse’s station. “You remember her from intake?”

I nod as the clearly alpha and ancient female looks up at me, her eyes narrowing on my face briefly before she gives me a tight lipped smile. “Let’s get to it, Severe.”

Arching a brow, I follow her as the guards get behind me, O’Brien chuckling while he whispers, “She’s not much of a talker.”

“But neither are you,” Stevenson adds. “So, I’m sure this is going to be one awkward as hell exam.”

As soon as we’re inside the second of the two rooms labeled for exactly that, they let me know they’ll be back for me shortly, then disappear into the hall while I’m left with Nurse Hubbard.

“Inmate number 11936.” She grabs a clipboard off the counter and stands in front of me.

“Korvin Severe.” The nurse glances up at me again before she starts circling me.

“Thirty one years old. Incarcerated at seventeen. Parents, deceased. Younger sister, Maisie, is the only one who ever tries to make contact.” I can hear her flipping through my file and something about it makes me uneasy.

Especially when she says, “Unmedicated sociopath.”

I’m not sure why hearing her read that makes my stomach churn, but it does, and I’m suddenly grateful she’s not in charge of my treatment.

“Vegetarian,” she scoffs. “Is that right?”

I nod as she comes around and stops in front of me again.

“Did they honor that in prison?”

I shake my head.

“Did you eat what they gave you?”

I didn’t have a choice, which is why I nod again.

If I didn’t eat what they gave me, I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself when I needed to, and I definitely would have starved to death at some point.

I saw it happen with a few guys over the years, trying for a hunger strike in the seventh circle of hell and having it backfire horribly.

“For some reason.” Nurse Hubbard scribbles something down on my file. “It’s important to Dr. Lowe for you residents to have the freedom to make as many of your own choices as possible while you’re here.”

Something she obviously doesn’t agree with.

“You’ll be allowed a vegetarian diet while you’re at Blackhurst Ridge if you so choose to follow one. I will be monitoring your intake and appetite as well as your daily activity, exercise, perform regular wellness exams, and oversee your medications.”

My brow furrows as she looks up, and a borderline malicious grin splits her weathered features.

“Yes, I said medications. If I have anything to do with it, all of you will be drugged so heavily that you’re nothing more than zombies walking the halls up here.

” She pulls her clipboard against her chest, crossing her arms against it as that smirk on her face grows.

“Dr. Lowe might think you’re misunderstood, that underneath that calculating, bloodthirsty exterior you’re all still men who can be reformed, but I know better.

All six of you are animals, disgusting dogs who should be euthanized, and I’m going to see to it you are. ”

Then she turns, sets my file on the counter, and proceeds with a routine exam as if she didn’t just show me my gut was right about her, and she might be more dangerous than any of us with life sentences.