“How exactly do you plan to rehabilitate me?” I ask.
The tip of her tongue darts out, moistening those pale lips.
“Often it’s useful to examine whether there’s an underlying psychiatric issue that may contribute to negative behaviors. We can do tests to determine if schizophrenia or depression might—”
“I’m not crazy,” I say, flatly.
“Mental health is a spectrum,” she says. “There’s no bright line between mental illnesses and sound, rational minds. And in any case, even without a diagnosable condition, I can still help you to understand your triggers and correct your behavior.”
“Really,” I say. “And how many prisoners have you helped in this way?”
She shifts in her seat. “That’s not really—”
“How long have you worked here?” I demand.
I heard her stumble while introducing herself. I’m pretty fucking sure she was about to admit that I was her first patient.
“I’m new to this prison,” she says, with a valiant attempt at dignity. “But I assure you, I’m a fully licensed psychologist with—”
“Yeah?” I laugh. “When’d you get that license? Is the ink dry?”
Clare takes a slow breath, trying to shake off my taunts.
It doesn’t work. As she moves to open my folder, her hand jerks, knocking her pen onto the floor.
It falls between us.
She leans far out of her chair to retrieve it, that long sheet of shining dark hair slipping over her shoulder and hanging down toward the dingy carpet.
She grabs the pen and pulls herself up again.
As she’s rising, I lunge forward, all the way to the end of my chain. I seize that sheaf of hair and wrap it tight around my hand, jerking her out of her chair toward me. I don’t have much room to maneuver, but even chained I overpower her with ease.
I pull her all the way inside the circle of my right arm, my hand wrapped up in her hair, my fingers clamped around the base of her neck. I yank her against me until her petite little body is pressed up against my chest. We’re eye to eye, nose to nose, my other hand clamped over her mouth.
In this position I could kiss her or strangle her with the same bare minimum effort.
“That’s how I know you’re a fucking amateur,” I snarl, looking into those terrified doe eyes. “Because a professional would know better than to wear their hair down, or even to pick up their pen. Hell, I doubt they’d bring a pen within a hundred feet of a man like me. They’d know I could stab it through their eye quicker than they could blink.”
Her whole body is shaking. Tears glint in the corners of those big dark eyes.
To her credit, she doesn’t scream or try to fight. She knows it would be pointless.
She can feel my arm around her. She knows I could snap her spine before the guards could make it through that door.
She looks in my eyes, searching for something. Maybe some spark of humanity. Maybe some hint of the horrible fate in store for her.
She won’t find what she’s looking for.
I snarl, “Consider yourself warned. I’m no fucking social experiment. I won’t be reformed. I’m a criminal. A monster. A killer. I always have been, and I always will be.”
She breathes heavily, unable to mask the way she trembles and pants in my grasp. She’s terrified, humiliated, struggling not to burst into tears.
She thinks she can run tests on me. Well, I’m running a test on her right now. And there will be many more to come if she dares to visit me again. I have my suspicions about Clare, a condition I could diagnose in her just as easily as she could label me a sociopath and criminal.
I take one last inhale of that heavenly perfume.
“Go home, Clare. Find a nice stockbroker, join a country club. This is your one and only warning.”
I release her, allowing her to stumble away from me.
She’s shaking so hard that she can hardly pick up her folder and briefcase.
She casts one last horrified look at me. Then she runs out of the room.
Twenty minutes pass until the guards return.
I expect them to rough me up for putting my hands on the pretty little psychologist—or at the very least toss me in my cell as punishment.
Instead they take me back to solitary like nothing happened.
Which tells me all I need to know about my future interactions with Clare Nightingale.
Chapter 2
Clare
The lights in the staff restroom flicker on then off, and for one wild, terrifying moment, I’m afraid they’ll turn off altogether.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but after today…
The lights flicker and go back on, flooding the room with light so bright it’s blinding. I blink and look around the small room.
Even though there are several stalls in here and the entrance should stay open, I kick it closed and bolt it. I lean my forearm against the cold steel, brace my forehead on my arm, close my eyes, and breathe deeply.