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.
