Chapter 3
HARPER
A dangerous prisoner at Coldwater Penitentiary was bleeding in my exam room, and I was basically alone with him.
Sure, the CO stood guard outside the door, theoretically close enough to rescue me should the inmate make a move. But as a nurse, I knew the cold, clinical truth: It only takes three seconds to crush a windpipe. Two to snap a neck. One wrong breath, and I’d become another statistic.
Jesus. What the hell had I been thinking, taking this job?
These men could break me like kindling. This guy had just turned a prisoner twice my size into ground beef so severely, that inmate was now being tended to by the doctor.
And here I stood, all five foot four of me, about to patch up his knuckles like he’d gotten them caught in a car door instead of slamming them into someone’s face.
You can do this, Harper. What’s the first thing you ask a normal patient? If you don’t see their chart first?
“What’s your name?” Look at me go!
The guy stared at me, as if … what? It was an odd question? He hadn’t expected me to speak?
“Knox,” he eventually answered. “Knox Blackwood.”
Jesus. Even his name sounded like a guy who could snap a tree in half.
I forced myself to look at him. Really look.
Most women would probably find him hot as sin. Hell, he probably could’ve posed for the cover of Hot Men’s Magazine so long as they didn’t have a morality clause.
Knox Blackwood was six foot four of solid muscle, the kind of man you crossed the street to avoid in a dark alley.
Tattoos crawled up his arms and neck, disappearing into his buzzed hairline on the sides, the top just long enough to hint at sandy blond.
His jaw was dusted with stubble, like he hadn’t shaved in three days, and the orange jumpsuit stretched across shoulders that could probably bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
Something glinted at his throat. A pendant on a thin string, tucked beneath the collar of his shirt. An odd detail for a man covered in tattoos—that was for sure.
But it was his eyes that stopped me. Silver with hints of blue, like a Siberian husky’s. Beautiful and predatory in equal measure. The kind of eyes that made you forget he was an inmate.
Until you remembered.
The cuffs confining his wrists on a chain, connected to a thick belt at his waist, helped you remember really fast. Standard restraints for a man who’d just rearranged someone’s face.
My hands trembled as I snapped on nitrile gloves. Knox tracked every movement, and I braced myself for … something. Aggression. Intimidation. The way men like him took up space, made themselves bigger, louder, until you felt like prey.
Instead, he leaned back slightly. Dropped his shoulders. Made himself … smaller?
No. That couldn’t be right.
“Where are you hurt?” My voice came out steadier than expected. Small victories.
He shrugged. “I’m fine.”
I grabbed a penlight from the tray. “Any head pain? Dizziness? Nausea? Vision problems?”
“No headache. No vision disturbances. No dizziness. No nausea.” The words rolled off his tongue like he’d memorized them from a medical textbook. Or repeated them a hundred times before.
“You know the concussion protocol by heart.” I raised an eyebrow. “Frequent flyer?”
Those eyes locked on to mine, and something about his stillness made my skin prickle.
But strangely, not out of fear.
His gaze moved over my face slowly. Not assessing for threat. Not sizing me up. Just … looking. Like I didn’t match whatever file he’d built in his head.
Then his gaze dropped to my hands, and he looked bothered by something.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly.
Something in my chest stuttered. “I didn’t say you would.”
“You didn’t have to. Your hands are shaking.”
I looked down. Damn it. He was right.
“You don’t need to be scared,” he said.
Right. Because a violent inmate reassuring me was totally normal and not at all a red flag the size of Mars.
I’d assumed a man like this wouldn’t care if I was afraid of him.
Hell, I’d assumed he’d prefer it. Power and all that.
Silas always got off on the power. Sure, he apologized after, always with that rehearsed softness in his voice, but in the moment?
He loved seeing me afraid. He fed on it like oxygen.
This guy seemed like the opposite.
Then again, this guy was a much more sophisticated predator than Silas ever was. Silas was a backyard bully with a short fuse. Men like Knox Blackwood were probably the ones who lured you in with calm voices and gentle hands before the trap snapped shut.
I knew better than to fall for it.
“The inmate who just turned a grown man into hamburger meat said to the much smaller woman,” I replied.
Knox stared at me for a moment, like he was assessing the lightness of my tone.
And let’s be honest; the lightness in my tone was simply another survival mechanism.
Before I started here, I’d thought long and hard about how I’d interact with these inmates, and I decided I had two options: feed my animosity for the likes of these men or try to make these interactions as bearable as possible.
Was I judging them on the inside? One hundred percent. But if every interaction with an inmate was hostile and aggressive, it would make my days hell on earth. Not to mention, it might make it more dangerous for me.
So, here I was, trying to make the best of this.
“Was that your attempt at a prison joke?” He seemed genuinely amused.
“Just trying to keep it light. Or do you prefer dark and broody?”
“Light’s fine. But I should warn you, I’m not great at it.”
“No?”
“Slightly out of practice.” A small pause passed before he repeated his earlier claim. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you in prison for?”
His lips thinned. “Murder.”
Okay … we’ll just pretend I didn’t swallow a YIKES.
“Ah. Nothing scary about murder.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one.
“For the record, I’m not afraid of you.” I lifted my chin.
A lie. We both knew it.
Something flickered in those husky eyes. Amusement maybe. Or understanding. But he didn’t call me out. Just let me have it.
“Wouldn’t blame you if you were.” He lifted his chained hands, the metal catching the fluorescent light. “I’m not exactly dressed for a first impression.”
“Is that your version of an icebreaker?”
“That’s my version of honesty.” He paused, and that almost-smile returned. “But for what it’s worth? Pinkie promise. You’re safe with me.”
Pinkie promise. From a convicted killer. What the hell had become of my life? The guy could probably rip my spine out through my ear canal.
So, why did part of me—some stupid, self-destructive part—want to believe him?
I glanced at the restraints, then back at his split knuckles. Blood had dried in the creases of his fingers, and I could already see the swelling spreading across his hand. But who knew what injuries he might’ve suffered elsewhere?
“Officer, I can’t properly assess the damage with his wrists chained to his waist,” I called to the CO.
Officer Daniels popped back in, his hands folded over his officer belt. “He came from a fight. Stays chained until the lieutenant clears it.”
“And if he has internal injuries I can’t detect because I can’t do a proper exam?”
“Then document it and cover your ass, Nurse. He stays chained.”
I didn’t miss the way Knox’s jaw tightened at the CO’s tone toward me. His fingers stretched once, slow and deliberate, then curled back in.
Weird.
When the CO left, I turned to Knox. “I’ll have to work around the restraints. But I need you to tell me if something hurts. I can’t do my job if you play tough guy.”
He held my gaze for a beat. “I’ll tell you.”
“Your knuckles are split to the bone. You need stitches.”
“Okay.”
No argument. No posturing. Just quiet compliance.
Silas would have made it a negotiation. A power play. Knox just … waited.
It didn’t mean anything. Compliance was just another kind of control.
“I need you to lie back so I can check for internal injuries. As best I can anyway.”
He tilted his head, considering. Then, without argument, he complied, stretching out on the exam table that groaned under his weight. The chain at his waist kept his hands tethered to his stomach, though the slack in the links allowed some range I’d need to watch for.
I started with his abdomen, pressing carefully through the thin fabric of his shirt, checking for rigidity or guarding that might indicate internal bleeding. The moment my hands made contact, he went completely still, like he was holding his breath.
So did I, apparently.
At my last job, most of my patients had been over sixty-five. Soft middles. Knox Blackwood was … not that. His stomach felt like it had been carved from granite, each muscle defined beneath my palms even through the fabric. Warm. Solid.
Lethal, my inner scaredy-cat added.
“Does this hurt?” I pressed the upper right quadrant.
“No.”
I had to work around the waist chain, my fingers brushing cool metal as I palpated his sides. “This?” Lower left.
“I’ll tell you if it does.”
I moved to check his ribs, trying to ignore how my hands looked child-sized against his torso. He was warm beneath the thin fabric, but he didn’t move. Knox just breathed. Slow and steady. Like he was trying not to spook me.
Which was oddly considerate, given that I was the one with my hands all over him.
“You’re the new nurse.” His voice rumbled low, barely above a murmur. Almost conversational.
“So, you’ve memorized all the nurses? That means you’re in here often.”
That almost-smile returned. “Didn’t say I memorized them. Just said you’re new.”
“And how would you know that?”
“You’re the talk of this place.”
I froze, unease settling through me, but I refused to show him that it made me uncomfortable and, yes, scared that violent inmates would be talking about me.
Brand-new prey perhaps.