Kian’s Cell—One Day Later
I’m lying on the hard mattress of my bed when I hear approaching footsteps. I jump up instantly, wondering if it’s Renata again.
My head has been filled with nothing but thoughts of her ever since her visit yesterday. She’d been dressed better than the last time I saw her, in long pants and a flowing white sweater that covered most of her skin. She still looked so thin, though. And there was something deep and dark in her eyes that’s haunted me in the hours after she left.
The partition is locked from the outside, so I have no idea who’s on the other side of the door. “Move back,” a deep voice booms.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and wait. The bolt unlatches. The door opens. For a moment, my breath catches in my chest.
But the silhouette that slinks into my room is definitely not who I was expecting.
It’s not Renata. This woman is much shorter, much curvier. She moves like someone who knows the power her femininity has over men. She slinks around to draw the eye to her tiny waist, her tossing hips.
When she steps into the light, I get a better look at her. Her thick blonde hair cascades down her bare shoulders. She’s wearing a corset that has her breasts pushed up almost to her chin and a miniskirt that she might as well have forgone entirely for all the good it does in keeping her assets clothed.
The moment she’s inside, the door closes behind her—but the partition stays open.
She gives me a sultry smile. “My, my, you are much more handsome than they told me.”
She’s got the faintest hint of a Greek accent, but it’s almost entirely buried under the American twang that probably took her years to perfect.
I lean back against the cool wall and eye her calmly. “And who are you?”
“Anyone you want me to be, honey.”
I roll my eyes. “I think you have the wrong cell.”
She shakes her head. Even that manages to be sultry. The woman is good at what she does—whatever that is.
She glides forward, making sure to shake her hips for my benefit on the way. She settles at opposite corner of the bed, which puts her only a couple of inches away from me. Her skirt rides up higher as she crosses her legs, exposing the milky whiteness of her inner thighs.
When she’s settled in place, she reaches out and runs a finger down my chest. I slap her hand away and sigh impatiently.
“Do you have a name?” I sigh.
She looks shocked by the rejection, but she tries to recover fast. “Do you care?”
“That’s the only reason I’m asking.”
“Lotus.”
“Your real name.”
The flirty smile on her face falters ever so slightly. “Helena.”
“Helena,” I nod appreciatively. “Pretty.”
She tries to pivot off the compliment and back into character. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asks.
I smile politely. Then, smile plastered in place, I say, “No.”
“No?” she repeats, her own smile faltering.
“You’re not my type, Helena. Not your fault.”
“What is your type?” she asks, trying hard to play the game despite the curveballs I’m throwing her.
“The type who isn’t trying to fuck confessions out of me.”