Page 7 of Toxic

“You deserve better, you know,” he says after a fewminutes.

The filing drawer shuts with an echoingclang. “Oh, so what? You think you would treat mebetter?”

Thankfully, just as he’s about to break my fragile composure, the door opens, and another patient walks in. The guards escorting him hover by the doorway until I dismiss them with a nod. I cross quickly to the new arrival’s side, beaming a touch too brightly at their timely appearance. This inmate, whose jumpsuit name tag identifies him as Salvatore, is cradling one bleeding hand with theother.

“Cut myself in the kitchen,” heexplains.

“Let’s get that taken care of,” I say as I lead Salvatore to an empty bed where he reclines with a grunt, his face ashen. “You sit right here, and we’ll have that stitched up innotime.”

I turn to get my supplies from the very storage closet I had him organize, and find Green Eyes still waiting, watching, except this time his focus is on the patient. “You’re welcome to get back to work,” I tell him with forcednonchalance.

“Yes, Mrs. Emerson.”He hands me the kit I was going to get, eyes bright with unshedlaughter.

I lift a shoulder before taking the kit from him. “Suityourself.”

“I normally do, but I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you get back to your work here, and I’ll stay out of your way for the rest of the day if you do me onefavor.”

My responding smile is calm, or at least I hope so. “Whatisthat?”

“Tell me. Admit to me who hurt you, and I’ll leave you alone.”His voice is barely a whisper when he asks it, so I know Salvatore couldn’t possibly haveheard.

The paper from the suture kit crinkles under my strangling hold. He’s too close. Not physically. No, he’s not trying to crowd me right now. He’s too close emotionally, psychologically. Those green eyes are more than just pretty window dressing. Something tells me he sees far more than I’d ever becomfortablewith.

“Why does it matter so muchtoyou?”

He leans against the doorjamb. “You’re avoiding answering the question. Tryin’ to keep me here longer?” His eyebrow lifts inquestion.

My throat bobs with a swallow because I was right. He can read me too well. He knows I don’t want to answer the question. Not only because I’m afraid of what it’ll mean if I do, but because it wouldn’t matter if I shouted my problems from the rooftops. There isn’t one person in my life that cares what happens to me. Not one. I’m surrounded by hundreds of people who are supposed to uphold the law, but they let Vic get away with everything he does to me. That isn’t something that is going to change. Then I realize how pissed Vic would be if I did tell this man what he does to me. What does this no-name inmate matter anyway? He’ll eventually screw up and get transferred. After that, I’ll never have to see him again. This is my one chance to let someone know, to reach out and connect. I’ve been isolated for so long I’m practically vibrating with the need for positive attention from someone, anyone, even if it’s the last person on earth I should wantitfrom.

“My husband,” I say quietly and then turn back to attend to my waitingpatient.

The sound of my heartbeat fills my ears as I carefully unwrap the sutures and prepare to close Salvatore’s wound. I shouldn’t have told him that. I shouldn’t have given him the advantage. I shouldn’t have let him think he could have power over me in anyfashion.

ButIdid.

And no doubt I’ll suffer theconsequences.

He’squiet for the rest of the shift. Almost eerily so. I keep peering up at him as he disposes of medical waste, changes sheets, and mops around each patient, waiting for him to press me for more information. He doesn’t, which can only be part of whatever game he’splaying.

For the first time in maybe forever, it’s almost a relief to leave the infirmary during my lunch break. The escape I get from my work is one of the only aspects of my life to bring me joy. To have it ruined puts a sour taste in my mouth as I try to force down the leftover sautéed chicken and vegetables I broughtfromhome.

I let the sounds of the staff cafeteria wash over me and try to forget the four tense hours I spent skirting around what felt like a live grenade. A few more weeks of working with him and I’m going to be as taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Vic will certainly enjoy toying with meaboutit.

Appetite thoroughly thwarted by the thought, I dump my trash in the bin and make my way back to the infirmary. As I grow closer, the few bites I did manage to get down churn in my stomach and threaten to make a reappearance. I lick my dry lips and silently berate myself for not getting a bottle of water from the vending machine. As I pass the hall to the exit, I give a fleeting thought to pleading off work for the rest of the day so I don’t have to go back and face him, but I don’t. I’ve been absent long enough. Another day would probably raise suspicion, even for me and it would certainly pissVicoff.

Medical is busy with regular patients taking their after-lunch medications. I nod to one of the new nurses, Annie, and a veteran, Patricia, who both smile, if a little absently, in return. Their gazes slide over me, and my attention falls on the doors to the infirmary. I paste on a relaxed smile in case anyone is watching and force my feet to carry me the rest of the way tothedoor.

The room isempty.

I don’t dare call out for him, too afraid to break the tenuous silence. Doing so would only admit to a part of me wanting to see him again, which is ridiculous. As I take my seat at my desk, I decide that the less time we spend together, thebetter.

I pull a stack of paperwork in front of me, my hand poised to write, but the tip of the pen stops, hovering just above the page of scrap paper sitting on top of my file. I blink several times, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing. Then I realize, awestruck, the face I’m looking at . . . is my own. I push away from my desk and run both of my hands over my hair, my breathing is erratic and harsh even to my ears. My face feels hot, and the tips of my fingersarenumb.

I rub my eyes with my knuckles, but there’s no mistaking the exquisitely rendered drawing in front of me. It must have been done today because my hair is in the same braided twist and I’m working on Salvatore, whose frame is but a shadow in front of me, my expression a quiet study ofconcentration.

When had he done this? I’d kept him busy, so he didn’t have time for any more probing questions. It must have been after I left forlunch.

In it, I look almost beautiful. Serene. Is this what he sees when he looks at me? At the bottom corner in a slashing masculine scrawl is oneword:King.