Chapter 37
SINN'OUS
The whole Wing is abuzz in the usual morning ritual, and the chatter only intensifies when more men file out of their cells.
Reni straightens from drinking water in cupped hands at the sink, when Sinn'ous rises, towering over the shorter man. He doesn’t wait for any snark or snappy words. He grabs two fists full of shirt and throws Reni up against the wall, pinning him at eye level.
Reni’s eyes bug out, and Sinn'ous leans in to the point where there is nothing separating their chests.
He snarls into Reni’s face, “you will keep your hands off Izz. And you will stay by his side today, or so help me Satan I will string you up by your feet in the laundry room and peel the skin from your body while you scream and writhe in agony. If anything happens to Izz, not only will I kill you, but I will kill everyone you’ve ever met.
” He’s practically growling the words, voice darkening to something akin to death.
“Do I make myself clear.” He enunciates each syllable of those last words.
A statement marked in Satan’s brand. Should Reni disobey, Satan will have his soul.
And Sinn'ous will be all but glad to retrieve it for Him.
A throat clearing doesn’t break Sinn'ous away from staring Reni down—who has turned the same colour as the walls.
“Am I interrupting?” Rogers’s voice is the equivalent of ‘tread carefully.’
On the other hand, Sinn'ous is stark still. Locked on and ready to kill if Reni so much as has an unauthorised eye twitch.
When he’s sure his point has been carved in stone he shoves Reni into the wall then drops him. The other man stumbles, but manages to catch himself before he falls.
Reni rubs a shaky hand over his throat, clearing it a few times. “No, Sir.” He addresses the guard, his voice no more than a wheezed breath.
A narrowing of Sinn'ous’s eyes has Reni ducking his own and moving away to the back of the cell, pretending to busy himself by the sink.
It’s as though the threat to life hadn’t happened.
Rogers doesn’t address what he walked in on, he just hands over a bunch of pain pills and medication for STIs, giving instructions and assurances that it’s a precaution until the blood results come back.
Better to start it early and not need it, than wait and discover you needed it.
~~~
Shaking down the kitchen staff to retrieve a treat for Izz hadn’t even been worthy of calling a chore. A simple raised eyebrow and they’d tripped over themselves to get him anything he wanted.
Chocolate pudding cup and small bowl of soup perched next to his food, fingers curled tight around the solid plastic tray. Back straight. He glides his way down the packed cafeteria. Footfalls deliberately set in even strides.
Everything is the same. And yet it will all change. A deep seeded need he can’t name is scratching under his skin. It’s a sensation that crawls into his organs and squeezes them half to death. The resounding effect has sweat beading down his back.
Men in grey yell, and shove. Food is eaten in rushed panic for fear someone will steal it, or they’re choking back what they can in the limited time they have while it’s reasonably warm.
And all Sinn'ous can bring himself to focus on is the inmate who should have died days ago. The sacrifice he should have made to Satan.
The thoughts are easily pushed aside. A door snapping shut behind them once his ass touches the seat right next to Izz.
Sitting down hadn’t been his intention. Drop the food off and walk back to his table. This wasn’t the plan. Though the sudden silence in the loud room is deafening. He never realised just how normal the noise had become, until it stopped.
An unnerving sense of panic filters in. Or it tries to. Because he kills the sensation swiftly, a chop of an axe to cut it down at the roots.
No, this doesn’t go against the plan. You’re doing this for the plan to work.
Yes. That’s it. In order to get what he wants he has to stake a public claim. It’s all about his wants. It has nothing to do with Izz. Nothing at all.
He swallows thickly. Then places the pudding and soup onto Izz’s tray.
There. That’s what this was all about. Giving Izz food so he doesn’t keel over. Sacrifices have to be healthy or they aren’t worthy.
It’s what he tells himself anyway, as his eyes narrow and he sends a menacing glare to anyone who dares look directly their way. Heads and gazes drop fast. And the silence grows louder.
At this he stands, taking his tray and his leave.
The walk to his table at the row’s end isn’t the same.
It’s hard to describe, only that his body is weighed down and the more he walks the heavier he becomes.
Until he practically compresses into the seat, body fighting against something unseen threatening to take him to the floor.
Whatever the hell is going on inside him is something lost to him. His mind is such a jumbled mess he can’t think straight.
This is bad. He shouldn’t be like this. So . . . So . . . Uncertain?
Fuck.
Everything is different. The murmurs around the room are purposeful. He made a point he’s not sure even he understands. A permanent point he can never take back.
The jarring thoughts fizzle out when his gaze catches another. One dripping of exhaustion and written in the bloody ink of fear and resignation. An unwavering uncertainty screaming to Sinn'ous to answer its call.
And he does, with a small barely perceivable nod, and that expression on Izz’s pale features visibly shifts to a deep relief Sinn'ous doesn’t know how to react to.
There is something about Izz that is changing Sinn'ous in ways he’s not sure he can physically press pause to.
Is it too late to try? Does he want to stop this? Whatever this is.