Chapter 5
Katana
I let Marcy pull me toward the food line, adrenaline unspooling in my limbs. My legs wobble but hold. I can still feel the heat of his stare slicing into me like a brand.
“Eyes forward, Katana.” Marcy’s voice is low, but there’s ice under it. She steers me between people at the counter, her hand tight on my elbow. “You don’t want to cause trouble.”
People shift around us. One of the older patients hums a nervous tune. Another gives a small, pointed sniff when he sees me. Everyone seems to know the rule: don’t look at Micah. I broke that rule the second my eyes met his.
A woman ladles stew into a bowl and pushes it toward me.
The steam warms my face. My stomach rumbles loud enough that Marcy pauses, her eyebrows hitching.
I almost laugh, embarrassed and grateful at the same time.
I didn’t always know when my next meal would come.
There were months at Mom’s when I learned the exact sound of an empty cabinet.
Then I sat behind bars, too afraid to eat, until I finally ended up here.
There are things institutional food can’t fix, but a warm tray is something, and I take it like salvation.
“Eat,” Marcy snaps as she piles potatoes and a thick hunk of bread next to the stew. Her hands move briskly and efficiently. “You’ll be on meds tonight. Take them. And don’t wander the halls. You hear me?”
“Yes.” My voice is small. I keep my eyes on the tray because if I look up now, I’ll see him through the sea of bodies, and then there’s no telling where the rest of my night will go.
She guides me to a table at the far end of the room—opposite from where Micah Morrow sits—and nudges me until I’m in the chair, my back facing him.
The metal chair is cold, seeping through the fabric of my sweatpants.
The place feels like a prison and a sanctuary all at once.
At least here, food appears when it’s supposed to.
Marcy doesn’t sit. She leans against the wall, scanning the room, keeping the cafeteria running.
I lift the spoon and blow on the stew. The first bite is hot, bland, and perfect.
Even with my back turned, the world tightens around a single thread. I can feel him—an invisible pull, a pressure at the nape of my neck. He’s watching me. I know it with every fiber of my being. The hair on the back of my neck prickles with unease and something else. Something hotter. Forbidden.
I try to focus on chewing, on the rhythm of swallowing, on anything that will keep my heart from jumping out of my throat.
Marcy’s attention slips for a beat. Two men at a table across the room are arguing, and she rises to intervene. The noise swells around me.
I let my eyes drift over my shoulder like a forbidden promise.
Micah’s looking at me.
His smirk is small and almost casual, like a man tasting a private joke. But when his eyes lock with mine, something else flickers there—hunger threaded with ownership. It’s an awful, private certainty that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
It’s ridiculous. He’s a monster. Why should his look have any gravity?
Still, the sensation lingers like a thread tied from him to me. Maybe it’s the power of being noticed. Perhaps it’s the danger. Maybe a tiny, stupid part of me is flattered by his attention.
Utterly stupid. That’s what I am.
I shift in my chair and force my gaze back to my tray, the telltale tremor in my hands steadying. Food goes cold if you stare at it too long.
I focus on eating, trying to forget his stare—and smirk. A task that is impossible.
Around me, Holloway hums with noise. Trays scrape, voices drop to murmurs, Marcy barks orders. Yet the thread from him to me tightens and loosens with the tide of the room, but never breaks.
And when I swallow the last bite of food, I cannot tell if I’m more afraid of him or how much I’m already drawn to his darkness.