I’ve been a nurse at Blackthorne Correctional Institute for five years, so dealing with inmates, from the docile to the deadly, isn't new. None of the tricks of the trade I’ve learned work to calm my panic when he directs the full force of his attention to me.
“Did they tell you to wait here for your receiving exam?” I ask, and I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t betray my sudden nerves.
He lifts a shoulder, the material of his blood-smeared jumpsuit rustling in the otherwise quiet exam room.
Even though warning bells are going off in my head, I take careful steps forward until I reach the end of the examining table where he’s perched. Most of the men who come here for care know better than to mess with the staff, but there’s always the chance that today will be the day one of them changes their mind. So, when I reach for the clipboard hanging from a clip on the end of the bed that has his information on it, I do so with one eye on him. Something tells me it would be a bad idea to turn my back on him.
After a few careful steps back to allow for some much-needed space, I hazard a glance at his chart. There’s no name on it, just his inmate number, which turns my insides to ice and washes away any doubts I may have had about how dangerous he is.
It’s probably the blood.
A lot of prisoners get into fights with other inmates or officers during transport, but someone must have patched him up sometime between. There’s a bandage on his nose and tape on the apple of his cheek. The blood on his mouth must be from a tooth that got knocked out, maybe? Or a cut in his lip. Either way, there’s nothing that needs my immediate attention, but it reminds me to be cautious.
“It says here you didn’t do the medical history questionnaire with the officers before they brought you here.”
He nods.
“Okay, we’ll start with that.” I move to my desk and settle myself into my space. “Are you seeing a physician for any ongoing illness or health issue?”
He shakes his head, and I mark it down. Aside from the scrapes and bruises, I don’t need the evaluation to tell me he’s in perfect health. Vitality exudes from him, tempting me closer. Years of lessons at Vic’s hands force me to keep my distance, but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have this man’s attention on me in a different setting.
I glance back down at the questionnaire to redirect my thoughts. As the gears in my brain grind to a halt, I tap the pen on the side of the clipboard, trying in vain to rally the remains of my professionalism.
“Are you taking any prescription or over-the-counter medication?”
He gives another shake of his head, and it occurs to me we may go through this whole interview without him ever saying a word.
We do.
He answers every question with a nod or a headshake. I learn he’s never had a major surgery, has no allergies, and has no familial history of any major diseases without ever knowing his name or the sound of his voice.
Once I come to the end of the medical history, I stop worrying about him trying anything. If he were going to hurt me, he would have done it by now. I’ve done these intake screenings a thousand times, so once I get in the groove, it gets easier to forget my first impression of him along with my intrigue and go through the motions.
“Let’s get you on the scale now so I can get a record of your current weight.”
He grunts, which I take as his agreement, and I nod to the scale by the office door. Despite his bulk, he moves with the grace of a feline as he crosses the room. The scale clangs as he steps up, and I busy myself with adjusting the measurements and making notes on the chart.
When I glance up again, I have to stifle a gasp because he’s staring at me with startling intensity. Blatant curiosity makes his gaze sharp and causes my stomach to flip with nerves and arousal the likes of which I haven’t felt in, oh, years. It’s a reaction that, if I were to act on it, could land me in ten different kinds of federal trouble.
“Uh, let’s get your height now.”
I indicate the measuring tape affixed to the wall next to us, and he shuffles over obediently, all the while he eyes me with a puzzled expression, as if I’m a problem he’s determined to solve. He submits to my handling as I record his height. Six feet of animal male towers over my five-foot-six frame.
Without thinking, I shove up the long sleeves of my scrubs as I record his measurements and check the clock as I desperately countdown to my first break. I just got here and I’m already impatient for ten thirty to roll around so I can get fifteen minutes of solitude.
A shiver runs down my spine, and like the prey I am, I freeze before forcing myself to look to the doorway. I expect to see Vic standing there, watching me. That’s the only explanation I have for the way my whole body freezes and the urgent need to flee takes over. I scan the room, certain he’s there waiting for me to do something wrong. Like breathe without his permission. Instead of my husband’s eyes on me, it’s the inmate’s attention that’s causing my panic. My gaze follows his, and when I move to hide my wrists, his muscles go rigid.
Dark, purpling bruises encircle my wrists from the vicious grip Vic had this morning in bed. Sweat beads on my upper lip, and my ears ring. Frozen in stasis, I can’t think of an appropriate response or excuse—not that I need to give him, of all people, an excuse. After a moment of suspense-laden pause where my eyes flit to his narrowed ones, I turn my back on him and head to the infirmary to call the officers back for their prisoner. Since we always seem to be understaffed, it isn’t uncommon for them to split between both rooms, and right now, I’m cursing that for all it’s worth.
I don’t make it that far.
I should have known better. Every instinct since I stepped into the room has been telling me to keep my guard up because the moment I took my eyes off him, he’d pounce.
And, fuck me, it’s exactly what happens.
In the long space of a protracted moment, he’s so close to my back his warmth surrounds me. He pins me between his body and the wall, his front to my back. A stab of profound fear engulfs me, and I can’t control the whimper that explodes from my throat.
He doesn’t make the mistake of touching me, but the threat is there nonetheless. Which is exactly what he wants me to know. He may be the one behind bars, but he’s the one with the power right now.
He speaks for the first time, and my body turns to ice. At least I hope it’s ice. The only other explanation is one I won’t even consider.
“Did someone hurt you, little mouse?” His voice is as empty and hard as his gaze was. An abyss of secrets and lies. He shifts but still doesn’t touch me as he leans forward and inhales.
Is he smelling my hair?
“Is that why you look like you want to crawl back into a hole?”
Words are an impossibility.
It doesn’t seem to matter to him because he goes on speaking. “What’s a girl like you doing in this place anyway? Hmm?”
He doesn’t expect me to answer, so I don’t. I don’t think I could if I tried.
He nudges my shoulder, touching me for the first time to indicate he wants me to turn around. So, I do, making sure to keep a wary eye on him. Breath stutters past my lips in staccato bursts. My hands clench into fists by my sides.
His hands raise, and I flinch. My reaction is so subtle that I wouldn’t expect him to even notice, but his eyes flash to mine in abrupt understanding. There’s a tug at the breast pocket of my scrubs, but I don’t dare look away from his gaze.
I can only wait.
White edges into my vision as he raises my ID card to his line of sight. I shiver from the ice collecting in my stomach as he studies my picture and name.
“Tessa Emerson, RN,” he murmurs, peering deeply into my eyes. “It’s nice to officially meet you. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
Maybe it’s the morning spent underneath my grunting husband. Maybe it’s the all too self-assured gleam in this criminal’s eyes. Maybe it’s insanity. Whatever it is, it builds inside me. My skin pulls tight, and I almost expect it to crack and split, but it doesn’t. Instead, my arms shoot forward, and I shove at his chest with my palms. They come in contact with the wall of firm muscle, emphasizing how impotent I am. It doesn’t move his mountainous form, but he relents and gives me a few scant inches of breathing room, which I desperately need. The air between us is thick with tension, and I find myself drawing it in with greedy gulps, but it isn’t enough.
My flare of anger seems to please him, though, because the creases at the corner of his eyes twitch and he bares his teeth in a feral grin.
I find my voice, my irritation growing at his amusement. I’m the one in control. “Back away,” I order, willing a bit of steel into my voice.
He holds up his hands in a show of uncharacteristic complacency as the officers choose the next moment to make their appearance. Their eyes swivel back and forth between the inmate and me until they finally stay trained on me.
“Is everything okay here?” one of them asks.
I could report his misconduct, but even as the thought occurs to me, I know I won’t. What’s worse is he seems to read my mind on the matter, and his smirk widens. Explaining what happened to an officer will only mean whispers will leak back to my husband and I’ll pay the price. For the first time, I resent this life Vic’s forced me to live. The officer who spoke impatiently sucks through his teeth. The sound skitters over my sensitized skin like an unwelcome insect, and I shiver.
“Fine,” I answer a few seconds later, unable to stomach the uncomfortable pause. “Everything is fine.”
Everything is most assuredly not fine.
Blood drips from my nose, and I can’t see out of my right eye. The dark red liquid splatters on the pristine tile floor and races along the grout line. Vaguely, I contemplate how long it will take for me to scrub it out as my husband grips my hair and wrenches me back to my feet.
“You made me look like a fool,” he says, spit flying from his lips.
No doubt the handsomely compensated officers had run to Vic the moment they left the infirmary. It didn’t matter that nothing had happened between the prisoner and me. It didn’t matter that I’d never laid a hand on the man outside of trying to push him out of my personal space. What mattered was whatever fucked-up scenario Vic imagined in his twisted little brain. To absolve my imagined sins, he is subjecting me to his version of torture.
Till death do us part, right?
I'd gone to the police before to report his abuse. I went so far as to press charges. I was terrified, but I did what I thought I had to do to save myself. But the Honorable Judge Edward Milton—I’d never forget his name—dropped the case. Instead of Vic being punished, I was the one sentenced and written off as an emotionally unstable woman. Now I do the only thing I can...endure.
My eyes move to the stain in the grout, and I start listing the ways to remove it.
First, scrub the stain with a sponge and some cold water.
Vic—he hates to be called Victor, as I learned the first night he hit me on our honeymoon—backhands me, making my head snap to the side. The force of the blow knocks me back, causing the hair still wrapped in his hand to rip from my scalp.
If that doesn’t remove the stain, then use a toothbrush with baking soda.
“I don’t want you associating with that inmate again, do you hear me? McNair and Summers couldn’t stop smirking at me when they found me. You humiliated me.”
I swallow back the blood pooling in my mouth, my eyes still on the stained tiles. The metallic taste lingers in the back of my throat and burns its way down to my stomach. It settles there, a stone dropped into a pond of bile. Then he kicks me in the stomach for good measure, and the stone disintegrates with the force of my rage. “I understand,” I say, though the word comes out as a quaver. I let him assume it’s due to fear.
His fist tightens in my hair, forcing my head back until his disdainful expression fills my vision. “See that you do,” he murmurs. “When you see him again, I don’t want to hear about you flirting with him. Do you understand me?”
He knows there are circumstances when only one nurse is on call, but I nod anyway. There’s no use pointing it out. In times like these, logic only seems to feed Vic’s madness.
“I want to hear you say it.” His words are grit as he spits them at me.
“When I see him again, I won’t flirt with him,” I repeat mechanically, blood dribbling down my chin from where I bit my cheek to keep from saying what I want to say.
He reels away, wiping his hands on his suit pants and sneering as I crumple to the floor. The cold tile pressed against my face grounds me, and I dig my fingernails into the piling of the rug instead of into his face.
“Clean yourself up before you make dinner.” He pauses to peer into the mirror and preen. “I think I’d like steak tonight.”
He leaves me in a ball, blood steadily dripping into the grout. It takes me a minute before I can pull myself to a sitting position. Every scream of a muscle fuels the same flush of rage that inspired me to shove at that inmate. I retrieve a sponge from underneath the sink and imagine what would happen if I did the same thing to Vic.