Page 36 of Imprisoned

“This is pathetic,” I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cold concrete wall. The inner demons laugh at my weakness. They’re right—I’m losing my edge over some prison shrink.

But she’s different. She sees every rough edge within me and doesn’t flinch. Fuck, she quite happily welcomed it while she came apart on my cock four times yesterday. The thought of her fighting her desires and struggling against what she wants... it should satisfy me. Instead, it just makes the ache worse.

I drop back onto my bunk, staring at the ceiling. Two days. Forty-eight hours until I can see her again. Until I can watch that mask of hers crack just a little more.

The morning count echoes through the cellblock, but I barely hear it. I’m too busy wondering what she’s doing right now, if she’s thinking about me too. And that thought just makes me angrier at myself.

I’ve never let anyone get under my skin like this before. Never let anyone occupy my thoughts this way. It’s dangerous. It makes me vulnerable. But I can’t seem to stop it.

I sit up on my bunk, a plan forming. Every guard has access to personnel files. Her number’s gotta be in there somewhere. Thompson’s working B-block today—perfect. That greedy bastard will do anything for the right price.

I fish the burner phone from my pillow case, checking the battery. Still good.

The cell door clanks open for breakfast. I pocket a few cigarettes—universal currency in here—and head to the cafeteria. Thompson’s positioned by the entrance, looking bored as usual.

“Morrison.” He nods as I pass.

I hang back until the line thins out. “Got a business proposition for you.”

His eyes dart around before he steps closer. “What kind of proposition?”

“Need a number from personnel files. Dr. Matthews.”

Thompson’s face tightens. “That’s risky, Morrison. Could lose my job.”

I pull out the cigarettes, plus a folded hundred I’d stashed. “Consider it hazard pay. There’s more where this came from.”

He hesitates, then palms the offerings. “Give me ’til evening count.”

“Better be the real number,” I warn. “I’ll know if it’s not.”

“You think I’m stupid enough to cross you?” Thompson scoffs.

Back in my cell, I wait. The chorus of whispers suggests that Thompson might rat me out, but I know better. He’s too deep in my pocket already.

Sure enough, during the evening count, Thompson slips me a piece of paper with ten digits connecting me directly to her.

I memorize the number, then eat the paper. Can’t leave evidence. My fingers itch to text her, but I force myself to wait. Timing is everything. Let her stew in our last beautifulfuckingsession a bit longer.

Tomorrow morning, though? That’s when I’ll remind her she can’t escape me, even on weekends.

18

WILLOW

Istare into my coffee, watching the steam rise in delicate swirls. My mind keeps replaying fragments of that session, making my hands tighten around the warm mug. The quiet Sunday morning feels surreal like I’m living in someone else’s life.

“You’re losing it,” I mutter, running my fingers through my tangled hair. The kitchen clock ticks away, marking another sleepless night.

My phone buzzes with a text from Eleanor about tomorrow’s staff meeting. I can barely focus on the words. How am I supposed to face my colleagues? Face him again?

The coffee grows cold as I sit there, lost in my thoughts. Everything I worked for, my career, my reputation—is now balanced on a knife’s edge. And the worst part? A small part of me doesn’t care.

My mother’s wind chimes tinkle outside. The sound is usually so soothing, but it just sets my nerves on edge today. I should call Dr. Pierce, confess everything, and ask to be reassigned. That would be the right thing to do.

My skin feels too tight like I’m a stranger in my body.

I dump the cold coffee in the sink and grip the counter until my knuckles turn white. “Get it together,” I tell my reflection in the window. But the woman staring back at me looks different somehow—wilder and changed.

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