All Chained Up (6 page)

 

SEVEN

“O
H, THAT HEALED
up nicely,” Briar announced, glad to hear that her voice was crisp and efficient as she hovered over Callaghan—­especially considering her pulse was hammering at the skin of her throat in a way that made her want to press her fingers there.

Stop it, Briar. Get ahold of yourself and be professional. He was an inmate.
Forget about his body and how big it was . . . how it could break anything. Forget about the way his skin smelled like man, and clean sweat and something else entirely. Probably pheromones. Seriously, he could bottle that stuff and sell it for a fortune.

She'd been working with a surprising degree of productivity since she arrived this morning. Working side by side with Josiah and Dr. Walker, she fell into a rhythm treating patients, almost forgetting they were criminals. Until Callaghan arrived and she remembered everything that had made her uncomfortable about this place in the first place.

She felt the warmth of Knox Callaghan's breath near her chin and quickly stepped back, putting space between them as she resisted the urge to rub at her face.

He hadn't touched her. He had hardly spoken at all, but it was still there—that undercurrent of something dangerous and unpredictable radiating off him, curling around her and making her chest tight and uncomfortable.

She turned for the tray of medical tools. “I'm sorry, but this may not be that comfortable.” She tugged on the requisite gloves and picked up the suture scissors.

“It's all right,” he answered, the first words he'd spoken since he was escorted into the room.

Nodding, she began snipping at the sutures, thinking that his way of life wasn't one of comfort. She glanced only once at his stoic features. He hadn't shaved in several days and stubble dusted his strong jaw. “You look a little pale,” she murmured. “Are you feeling well?”

“No sunlight in the hole.”

She paused at this, imagining some dank little cell with no window. “You've been in there since last week?” For some reason, she hated thinking about that. Her mind conjured a dark, terrible dungeon right out of some horror movie. No one deserved being stuck in a place like that.
But then you don
't really know him. Maybe that's precisely what he deserved.

“They're letting me out today. After here.”

Silence fell as she worked, tugging at a particular stubborn piece of thread that had decided to stick to his flesh. He didn't show the faintest reaction.

Feeling the need to speak into the space of silence, she supplied, “That will be nice.”

His blue eyes flicked to her face then, like he couldn't help himself from looking at her when she uttered such a perfectly stupid thing.

That will be nice.

As though he would be attending a picnic or a baseball game. She heard his voice all over again telling her she didn't know
fuck all about this place
. Her face burned at the memory.

For a split second the corner of his mouth twitched. Her hand started to shake a little and she had to pause to regain her composure and adjust her grip on the scissors. With him this close to her, she felt certain he was examining the pimple on her chin. She was twenty-­six but still had the occasional breakout. Stress didn't help and there was no denying that working here stressed her out.

Pulling the last bit of thread from his skin, she released a shuddery breath. “There, now.” Taking a step back, she deposited the trash and tools onto the tray. Moistening a little antiseptic on some gauze, she lightly patted the wound where fresh blood trickled out.

“I don't think it will be too deep a scar. Maybe I can give you some Mederma to help minimize—­”

“That's okay,” he cut her off, and she flushed. Of course, he wouldn't care about a new scar. That was for ­people in her world who cared about things like their income tax and whether they would get that upcoming promotion.

“Okay.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs, mostly for something to do with them. “I'll call for a guard to escort you.” She gripped the edge of the rolling tray, wanting to flee but knowing she wasn't done. She had a job to do and she wasn't doing it right if she only did half of it. Deep breath. “Why don't I check your ribs again?”

He hadn't mentioned they were causing him any problems, but she told herself she was just being thorough before releasing him back into the general population.

He stared at her blankly for a moment, his face as hard and implacable as stone. Almost like he didn't understand her.

“Are you still wearing the bandage?” She reached for the hem of his white uniform shirt, ready to assist him. The fabric hung past his waist, so her fingers inadvertently brushed his thigh.

His hand shot out and locked around her wrist. She stalled, freezing at his grip on her. Her heart lurched into her throat at his viselike fingers.

“It's fine,” Knox said, his voice thick and gravelly.

Their eyes held.

“I already removed the bandage,” he added.

Briar moistened her lips and shivered as his gaze dropped to her mouth. “And you're not in any pain?”

He shook his head once. “I'm fine.” His fingers unfurled from around her wrist, slipping away.

“Let me check,” she insisted.

Something flared in his eyes and her skin shivered, breaking out in goose bumps. It occurred to her that he was probably not the kind of man accustomed to being ordered around by a woman, unless, of course, it was a female corrections officer.

He seemed like the kind of man that took charge. Her gaze skimmed the immense breadth of his shoulders, the broadness of his chest, the way his biceps bulged. She had a sudden image of him with a woman. In a bedroom. Well, on a bed. She snapped her gaze off his body with a mental curse. So. Wrong.

Her gaze fell to his hands. They were big, blunt-­nailed with long tapering fingers, his wrists solid with a light spattering of hair on the backs. She could visualize those hands, guiding, demanding. She blinked, forcing the disturbing image away.

There couldn't be too many ­people ready to oppose him, but this wasn't a world where he was free to take charge.

Fortified with that reminder, she moved in for his shirt again, but then stopped, watching him. He arched an eyebrow at her, clearly questioning her pause. Firming her resolve, she gripped his shirt and tugged it up. He lifted his arms so she could pull his shirt over his head and drop it down beside him.

He brought his hands onto the bed beside him, palms flat on the mattress, sitting bare-­chested in front of her. His body was ridiculous. Even bearing bruises, he looked like a well-­honed warrior.

She was a nurse. She'd seen him like this before. He was a prisoner. A criminal. He shouldn't affect her. In that moment, she vowed to take her sister up on her offer. She needed to go out on an actual date with a man. It had been too long since she actually kissed anyone. Even longer since she had sex. This was simply a case of a starving libido.

She narrowed her eyes and studied his body with what she hoped was clinical analysis. She shook her head at the dark bruises discoloring his ribs. Bringing her hands up, she ran her fingers over his smooth, warm flesh. “Still tender? You shouldn't have removed your bandages.” He gave a small grunt as she pressed a fraction harder.

“They inhibited my movement.”

“You get to move a lot in segregation?” she countered.

“I like to stay busy.” A corner of his mouth kicked up. He was mocking her.

She lowered her hands from him and handed him his shirt. “You should take it easy for a few weeks. No strenuous activity.”

His lips smirked like she had said something amusing.

“Why do I sense you're not going to take my advice?” she asked.

“I wouldn't dream of disobeying you, Nurse Davis.” He shrugged back into his shirt, still smirking, still mocking. Shirt fully on, he slid off the bed and dropped to his feet. “Are we done now?”

She stepped back. “Yes. I guess that's it. I'll send for a guard.”

“Thanks.”

Pushing the tray ahead of her, she sent a glance over her shoulder. No one was ever in a rush to leave the HSU. She had learned that much already. Everyone was happy to linger on one of the gray-­blanketed cots, preferring it to hanging out in the general population. But Callaghan seemed almost anxious to get out of here. Maybe because he would be returning to the masses. Maybe because he didn't like being around doctors. Or other sick ­people.

Except he wasn't the squeamish sort. No. She had the strongest sense that he didn't like
her
. That he was trying to get away from her. Which was ridiculous. A scary guy like him wouldn't be afraid of anything or anyone.

Least of all her.

KNOX LIFTED HIS
shoulders and rolled them in a small circle as he entered the yard, inhaling the outside air. Hopefully he wouldn't have another visit to the hole or the HSU for a while. He knew better than to waste time wishing he would never return to seg. It was an eventuality. A reality in here that he couldn't escape—­especially as a captain of Reid's crew. Reid had amassed one of the biggest gangs in the Rock, with as many connections inside as outside, but that meant anyone that wasn't one of them wanted to tear them down.

Above all he was a realist. But hopefully he wouldn't have to visit the HSU again and suffer Nurse Davis's hands all over him. He'd rather go straight to the hole over that.

He inhaled, relishing the sweat-­laced air and open space of the yard, trying to ignore the hint of pears still clinging inside his nose.

He could breathe again without a sense of the walls closing in on him. Even if he had to constantly watch his back out here he preferred this. It was better than being stuck in a smothering, airless room, his sanity ebbing away bit by bit.

He did a quick sweep of the yard, taking in everything at a glance. He could never let his guard down. A newer guy, wanting to make a name for himself, could always try to take him out. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to slip a shiv between his ribs.

His brother spotted him through ribbons of undulating heat and started toward him in his easy, long-­legged gait, resembling a rangy wolf, all hard lines and sinew strolling across the yard. Knox released a small breath. Whenever he was in the hole, a part of him always worried about North. Whether he was doing okay. Whether he was safe. Whether Knox not being around, not looking out for him, would be the one factor that got his brother killed. He'd lost so much already. He couldn't lose his younger brother, too.

North was nearly as tall as Knox, standing a little over six feet, but to Knox he would always be the kid brother he had to keep an eye on. The one that used to chase after him and his friends, pleading with them to wait up. The one that spied on him when he was making out with Gina Bagdanelli.

They looked each other over as the distance between them closed, and he realized it was the same for his brother. Every moment they were apart, North worried about him, too.

His brother wasn't the only one studying him. Knox felt the eyes on him. Hard men assessing for vulnerabilities, trying to see if he was still injured, if his stint in the hole had somehow damaged him. Weakened his mind or body. Not a day went by that he didn't have to look strong, hard. Unbreakable.

Stopping before him, North held out his knuckles to connect with his. “Hey, man.” He eyed the fresh scar on his forehead and then looked over the rest of him, clearly searching for other injuries hidden beneath the white of his uniform. “You all right?”

Knox nodded. “Yeah.” He motioned to his head. “It's nothing. Takes more than a tray to crack my skull.”

North grinned, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. It always surprised Knox—­his brother's ability to smile. He was still good-­natured. Even after eight years in this shithole.

Knox scowled at him and North sighed, killing the grin. Knox had told him enough times to cut out the smiles. Others might think him too soft. And then there was his kid brother's face. He was too good-­looking, and grinning just advertised the fact. Knox knew he wasn't bad looking—­he'd had his fair share of girls before prison—­but North belonged on the cover of a magazine . . . or on a billboard advertising cologne. They had the same dark hair, but his brother's eyes were a deep brown. There was a warm light in those depths despite all he had been through.

The first month in the Rock had been hell for both of them. They barely managed to protect each other. They had been hanging on by a thread when Reid took them in. Maybe he'd watched them fight long enough and hard enough and deemed them worthy. Or maybe he just felt sorry for them. Young, pretty boys never held up well.

Knox knew it put him in Reid's debt, and he accepted that. Fortunately, Reid had never asked either of them to do anything he was intrinsically opposed to. If that day ever came . . . Well, he would deal with it then.

“The skins are pissed but not making any moves.”

Knox snorted. “They're not going to do anything.”

North nodded as they crossed side by side to where Reid and a dozen of their guys played basketball.

“Everything's been pretty quiet. Well, except the two fish. They've stirred up a little noise.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, stopping at the edge of the game. Reid, the big motherfucker, was shirtless. Sweat gleamed off his tan muscles as he dribbled the ball effortlessly, eyeing the players on defense.

He was surprisingly graceful as he wove between them, his elbow shooting out and colliding with another guy's nose in a move that would have gotten you thrown out of any other game in the civilized world. Blood spewed and the player dropped. Reid didn't pause in his drive, dunking the ball and sending the rim into loud vibrations.