He’s quiet 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’s playing.
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 brought from home.
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 me about it.
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 piss Vic off.
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 to the door.
The room is empty.
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, the better.
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 fingers are numb.
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 of concentration.
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 for lunch.
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 one word: King.
I don’t know how to handle my response or what to do with this information, so I carefully fold the drawing into a small rectangle and tuck it into my pocket. I’m not too closed off that I don’t acknowledge the rush of tenderness I felt the moment I realized he’d paid such attention to me, but that’s a dangerous emotion. So, I tuck away my emotions along with the drawing for examination when they don’t feel so terrifyingly close to the surface.
A knock comes at the door, and I whirl around with my heart in my throat. It sinks when I realize it’s just Annie. “Got one for you!” she says, cheerfully ignorant of my inner turmoil.
“Thank you,” I say and lead the groaning inmate to a bed.
The next inmate assigned to the infirmary work detail arrives shortly after that, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed when it isn’t King.
It turns out, Vic hadn’t placed King in the infirmary to torture me. Whoever had King assigned to the infirmary was either powerful or well-connected. Vic complained about it for days afterward, and he did his best complaining with his fists. As warden of Blackthorne, he enjoyed controlling his little kingdom down to the smallest detail. When he didn’t get his way, I was the one who paid for it. This time, he was careful not to mark me up where anyone could see. But he couldn’t hurt me where it really mattered. With the constant promise of seeing King again, there was a bright flame of hope inside me that not even the pain Vic inflicted could diminish.
Still, each day I worked with King in the infirmary, there was a heavy silence between us. A week later, the flu swept through one of the blocks, leaving little time for me to notice the tension. After seeing the sketch and knowing how he viewed me, the urge to let him get just a little bit closer has been almost stronger than my self-preservation. It’s a constant battle to keep my mouth shut and our short chats solely on work.
Vic’s relentless whining, badgering, and beatings don’t help, either. I can feel myself unraveling with each passing day, and I certainly look it. The smudges under my eyes from lack of sleep make my olive skin tone appear wan and drawn under the fluorescent lighting. I haven’t been able to stomach much food in the past couple of weeks, which has made my cheekbones sharper, my eyes hollow. Hell, even my clothes hang on my frame instead of hugging my curves. I’m fading away right before my eyes, and if I don’t do something soon to save myself, there won’t be anything left.
“Why do you stay?” King asks me one day.
I turn slowly, mindful of my ribs. “Stay where?” I ask, even though we both know what he’s talking about. I knew he’d been biding his time to poke into all my soft spots. I should have known he’d choose a moment when I felt most vulnerable.
My eyes go to the door, but for the first time since the flu blew through, there are no patients. I never thought I would miss the chaos of full-grown men throwing up and complaining like children about hot and cold flashes. Now, there’s a somber, almost mellow feeling in the air. If I weren't stranded with temptation personified, I would have classified it as a good day.
He gives me a look that says drop the bullshit, and I almost smile. Warmth unfurls inside me in places long since frozen.
“I’m afraid of what he could do to me if I leave.” I shouldn’t be surprised at my own admission, but I am.
He plants his legs wide and cracks his knuckles at his sides. His green eyes turn flinty and hard. I don’t know why he’s in prison, but it wouldn’t surprise me if his rap sheet contains a long list of violent crimes.
“You should be more concerned about what he’s doing to you now.” A vein pulses at his temple, and his jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth to keep from saying any more than he already has.
My own back snaps straight at his accusation, warm fuzzy feelings forgotten. “I handle myself just fine.”
I’d forgotten how fast he moves, and a second later, he’s inches away, so close I can see the pulse beating in his throat. Instinctively, my hands fly up in front of me, and I swear he presses forward so that I’m forced to lay my palms against his chest. He’s so different from Vic it’s a shock to my system to have his body touching mine. I haven’t touched another man, despite Vic’s constant accusations of my infidelity, and to do so makes me yelp and turn my head away. I push against him, but it’s like trying to move a boulder. He doesn’t budge.
My mouth opens to protest, and then his hands are probing along my ribs. The sharp pain from blows Vic delivered causes me to bite down on my lip. Shame weights my head and brings my gaze down to my feet.
Only when he drops his hands and gives me some room can I look up. He gives me a long, hard look. “That’s what I thought.”
“Who are you to judge me?” I ask when I manage to recover my breath. Even then, my voice is little more than a wheezing gasp and lacks my usual bite.
His voice deepens, and though it seems impossible, he grows even more imposing. “I’m someone who knows better than to hit a woman.”
My suspicions about why he’s in prison solidify. This is a man who is capable of great harm. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. There is something about the blatant way he displays his dominance that’s almost comforting. He doesn’t try to hide who he is.
When I dated Vic, he tried to be exactly what I wanted him to be. Caring, subservient, kind. I don’t have those delusions with King. What I see is exactly what I get. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not.
I roll my eyes at the thought and gesture with the hand not wrapped around my rib cage. “Do you even know where you are? You’re in prison. That doesn’t say upstanding citizen to me.”
“I’ve never claimed to be upstanding, little mouse.” Well, if that isn’t confirmation of my assessment, I don’t know what is.
I glance at the window and see medical is as empty as the infirmary and scowl as I turn back to him. “Why do you even care?”
He steps closer again, and I stiffen, unsure of how my own body will react to his proximity. “Maybe I know what you’re going through.” I find that statement unfathomable and almost scoff. Almost. There is something about the way in which he said it that gives me pause. The woman inside who’s suffered innumerable assaults recognizes a kindred soul.
I find myself taking a step forward. “What do you mean?”
His eyes meet mine, and he lifts a shoulder. If he were a tiger, right now, he’d be wounded and irritable at showing it. I have no doubt if I tried to get close to him that he’d bat me away like an obnoxious fly. “My dad used to hit my mom and me.” He inches a bit closer. His gaze never wavers from mine. “I’m surprised more people haven’t seen it. But maybe you need to go through it to know for sure. I recognize the signs. It may have been a long time ago, but it’s something I’ll never forget. The way you try to make yourself look smaller and how you seem to walk like every bone in your body is broken.”
I wince, staring at my hands and trying to ignore the prickling of tears and the tickle at the back of my throat. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.” I turn away and look around blindly. “Let’s, uh, we should get back to work.”
“Don’t make the mistake my mother did,” he says as I pass by him.
I settle myself behind the desk, and he watches me for a moment more before going about his morning chores. My breath eases, and I use the mind-numbing task of filling out patient forms to keep my hands busy, but I can’t stop thinking about what he said. My awareness of him was already at a fever pitch. Now, I feel every movement he makes with my whole body.
Once patients begin to arrive, I lose track of him as I tend to their wounds and ailments, but I know he’s never far from me. After lunch, I return to the infirmary with a new sense of eagerness. I’m practically skipping past Annie and Patricia in medical, hoping I might catch him before he leaves for the day. He isn’t there, but there is another drawing on my desk.
I rub my fingers on my scrubs so I don’t smudge the ink, and they’re anything but steady as I pick up the piece of paper. This time, he’s drawn me looking down at my hands like I’d been doing during our conversation, and wisps of hair fan down, blocking my expression. I’m vulnerable and sad like the last picture he drew, but there’s strength to the firm line of my lips and my squared shoulders.
I’ve never considered myself to be a strong person. If I were, I wouldn’t have fallen victim to Vic’s machinations in the first place. I would have seen them for the empty promises they were. As I study the drawing of myself, I start to think maybe I can be the woman he sees in me, like how a broken bone grows stronger once it heals.
I carefully fold the drawing and place it in my pocket. As I do, something much more powerful takes root inside me, and as I continue my work, that something pulses just underneath the surface, a bubbling darkness much like the man who inspired it.