Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(13)

She seems about to say something, and then she stops and swallows, and God, I want to kiss that neck, breathe her in.

“Does it have a meaning?”

I look up at her. “Yeah.”

She gets from my tone that it’s off limits, even to her, because she nods, then looks around, seeming to remember the rest of the class. She points to the notebook. “Just do your best.” She walks off.

I stare after her, needing to follow. This thing between us is sizzling now.

The other guys are still busy writing.

I set my pen to the paper and do a few doodles. Then I raise my hand.

Dixon is busy fiddling with his phone, so I cough and stomp my foot. He finally looks up and sees my hand. He didn’t know she left either, and anger flares inside me. He’s supposed to be protecting her from *s like me.

“What is it?” Dixon says, finally motivated enough to move.

“I have to piss,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Wait until you get back to your cell.”

“I’ll go right here.”

Some of the guys snicker.

If I piss myself in the library, they’ll probably throw me in solitary again. But only after Dixon takes me to the infirmary to deal with bodily waste cleanup and files a bunch of paperwork. I’ve seen it happen like that with other guys. In short, he doesn’t want me to follow through on the threat.

“I’ve got seventeen of you,” he mutters, more to himself.

“There’s a bathroom in the back office, right? So you’ll be able to see me if I tried to escape.” I make my voice casual. If you come right out and say it, people think you won’t do it. Some reverse psychology bullshit. But he does have a straight line of sight to the office door. Calling for backup to handle a potty break will take forever and probably annoy the controller of the east wing too. That’s prison politics for you.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Go straight into the office. You’ll go to solitary for a month if you touch Ms. Winslow. Two minutes.”

He’s lazy. He should never allow this, but I don’t say that. I nod and walk over to the office.

I don’t have to touch her.

There she is, sitting behind the librarian’s desk…with a book in her hands. She’s reading? She expects us to spill our guts out there, and she’s in here reading the latest thriller or whatever the f*ck. I want to be offended, but something about the way she’s hunched over raises the hairs on my neck. She’s hiding. Afraid. It’s the world’s nerdiest fight-or-flight reaction. I like it.

She looks up, then, startled, and slams her book shut.

“Sorry,” I murmur. At her questioning look, I clarify, “For losing your spot.”

She stands up. “It’s okay. I’ve read it before. What…what are you doing here?”

Now that’s the question. Because I should be out there working on the building blocks of my f*cking escape plan.

I step closer and watch her eyes widen. I take another step and another; I’m behind the desk. She backs up. The swivel chair spins out of the way. One more step for each of us and she’s against the wall.

But I’m still not touching her. Her chest heaves. My gaze falls to her neck, where her pulse bangs away. I let her watch me watching it.

Is she worried? Even without the threat of Dixon, I wouldn’t hurt her.

“What are you doing, Grayson?” Her voice wavers, a parody of the authoritative tone she uses on the class. “Return to your seat.”

“I will. But first…” I’m close enough that my breath ruffles the hair at her temple. Her body’s like a furnace in front of me, singeing my face, my chest, all the way down my body. Can she feel me too? As long as I don’t touch her, I’m not breaking any rules.

One minute left.

I breathe in deep, storing the honeysuckle scent of her away to examine later, when I’m alone in my cell. “But first,” I whisper, “you never answered my question. Will anyone catch you?”

“It’s just an imagination exercise.”

Liar, I think.

Her irises are a crackle of brown and gold through the lenses of her glasses, pupils wide and wild. She can fake control, but not up close. She keeps her gaze on mine, as though she thinks looking away will be a sign of weakness—she has no idea how hot it is. I’ve never met a woman like her, and let’s just say I’ve met a lot of women.

She watches my face, trying to look confident. Her breath is shallow. A little panic. And there’s something else that makes my blood sing. Arousal.





Chapter Eight




Abigail


He’s not even touching me, but I feel pinned to the wall by the force of his presence.

The crazy thing is, I knew he would come, the same way I know a storm is coming from the swirl of danger and electricity in the air.

Dimly I think I should call out to the guard, but it’s like one of those dreams where I can’t call out. Or maybe I don’t want to, because being around him is a forbidden pleasure. Like soaking up the sun when you should be inside doing homework.

Except the sun doesn’t murder people.

He watches me steadily and I think again how his beauty is a kind of cruelty. The scar that cuts through his dark eyebrow points to the outer edge of his cheekbone, and I spot a tiny scar there—the end of the cut, as though somebody wanted to get his eye but didn’t.