35. Chapter 35
The heavy brass handles of the Warden’s office doors always felt colder than the rest of Blackthorne. It was a calculated chill, designed to remind anyone who entered that the authority inside was lacking in human warmth.
I took a breath, smoothing down the front of my olive-green uniform one last time. In exactly two hours, this fabric would no longer belong to me. I would hand in the badge, drop the key ring onto the front desk, and walk out into the bleak, mid-November frost as a free woman.
No more suffocating stone walls.
And no more Jester.
I knocked twice.
"Enter," a clipped voice called out.
The Warden sat behind his desk and didn’t look up immediately.
He was signing a stack of legal documents, the sharp, rhythmic scratch-scratch of his fountain pen filling the silence of the room.
The office smelled of old parchment, expensive leather, and the faint, bitter scent of black coffee.
On the wall behind him hung portraits of past administrators, their painted eyes staring down with rigid, historical judgment.
I hadn't noticed them the first time I sat here back in October, when this mess all started.
I was too worried about losing my job at the time.
Finally, he set the pen aside, capped it with a deliberate click, and folded his hands over the desk. His eyes locked onto mine.
"Miss Hart, the hour of your departure approaches. I must admit, the paperwork for a sudden resignation is always a tedious affair, but we have managed to finalize your accounts."
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a crisp, white envelope, sliding it across the polished wood. It stopped precisely an inch from the edge.
"Your final paycheck," the Warden said. "Including your accrued vacation time. You’ll find the state is meticulous about its debts."
I stepped forward and took the envelope. The paper felt heavy, a physical manifestation of my ticket out of this nightmare.
"Thank you, sir."
The Warden leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
"You know, Elara, I was quite surprised when your notice crossed my desk. You’ve shown a remarkable resilience in handling our more volatile assets.
" He paused, his gaze narrowing, dissecting my expression for any flicker of deceit.
"A cleaning position at a highway motel seems a bit beneath your capabilities, wouldn't you say? "
A cold drop of sweat traced a path down my neck. He looked into it. This shouldn't surprise me. A man like the Warden didn’t let anyone leave without digging through their trash first.
"I'm looking for a change of pace, sir," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice level, matching the mask of professional indifference I had worn for months. "The graveyard shift suits my current lifestyle."
"A change of pace," he repeated. "Well, no matter. Blackthorne always finds a way to fill its vacancies. You are dismissed, Miss Hart. Do ensure your final rounds are completed thoroughly. We wouldn't want any loose ends left behind."
"Understood, sir." I offered a tight, textbook nod, turned on my heel, and walked out.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, and I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for a week. I clutched the envelope tightly against my thigh before shoving it into my pocket.
Two hours. Just two hours left.
My feet moved automatically toward the maximum-security wing. The air grew progressively staler, the ambient noise of the upper blocks fading into a heavy, oppressive silence. The iron gates groaned as I swiped my keycard, passing through the security checkpoints one by one.
My final task was the routine maintenance of the Jester’s cell.
When I reached his cell, the silence was different. Usually, the moment my boots echoed down the corridor, his raspy, melodic laughter would drift through the slot of the steel door, a wicked greeting meant to shatter my composure.
Today, there was nothing. No humming. No shuffling of feet.
I pulled the heavy mop bucket behind me, the wheels squeaking loudly against the concrete. I swiped the final keycard, and with a heavy, mechanized groan, the solid steel door slid open.
The Jester was sitting on the edge of his low cot, his hands resting flat on his knees. His orange jumpsuit was immaculate. He didn't look up when I entered. He didn't offer a devastating grin or a dirty whisper.
He was oddly quiet.
"Good morning," I said softly, breaking the silence as I stepped inside.
He still didn't move.
The silence stretched between us, thick and vibrating with an invisible tension that made my instincts scream. Two days ago, he had told me I was his. He had made me promise I understood.
Now, he looked like a statue carved from ice.
"Jester?" I murmured, taking a hesitant step forward.
In a fraction of a second, the universe ruptured.
He exploded.
The Jester cleared the distance between the cot and the door with a terrifying, predatory speed that my brain couldn't even process.
Before I could raise my hands, his body slammed into mine, driving me hard against the reinforced steel door.
The impact knocked the wind from my lungs, a gasp tearing from my throat.
A blinding flash of silver caught the dim light of the cell.
A cold, jagged edge of metal was pressed hard against the sensitive skin of my throat. The biting pressure was unmistakable.
A shiv, held steady by a hand that didn't tremble even a millimeter.
"Not a sound, little bird," the Jester's voice was no longer a playful, seductive purr. It was a razor-sharp command, stripped of all theatricality, radiating a cold, lethal focus.
"Jester—" I choked out, my body going completely rigid.
The tiniest movement of my vocal cords caused the blade to dig deeper, drawing a single, stinging bead of blood that trickled down my collarbone.
"Shh," he growled, his lips brushing against my temple.
With a brutal grip, he spun me around, pulling my back flush against his front. His left arm wrapped around my chest like a vice, pinning my arms to my sides, while his right hand held the blade locked beneath my jaw.
He was using me as a physical shield to drag me backward out of the cell and into the open corridor.
"Staff hostage! Sector 4!" a voice screamed from down the hall.
"Time to move those pretty legs of yours," the Jester hissed in my ear, dragging me toward the main exit gate of the wing.
The alarms instantly tore through the quiet of Blackthorne, a deafening, rhythmic wail accompanied by the flashing red of the emergency lights. The prison was going into a hard lockdown.
My stomach violently sank, dropping like a stone into a cold, bottomless pit. The bitter taste of bile rose in the back of my throat as the reality of what was happening finally pierced through my panic.
He used me.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, more devastating than the sharp metal biting into the flesh of my neck. All those visits to his cell. All those breathless, heated moments in the dark where I thought I was the one taking control, the one bending the Jester to my will.
It had all been a lie—a sick, beautifully choreographed illusion.
It had always been a cat-and-mouse game, and I had been the stupid, blind little mouse.
The Jester hadn't been undone by me; he had been studying me.
With a terrifying, patient precision, he had found every single one of my weaknesses—my loneliness, my craving to feel something other than numbness, my desperate need for escape.
He had dug his metaphorical nails deep into my softest edges, anchoring himself to my soul.
All for this exact moment.
He played the long game, waiting for the perfect second when I finally let my guard down.
He knew it was my last day. He knew I was leaving. And he had used my body, my keys, and my stupidity as his golden ticket out of these walls.
A cold wave of horror washed over me as he dragged me backward, the heels of my boots skidding helplessly against the concrete. I had lied to him, thinking I could lie through my teeth and walk away scot-free in two days.
But the joke was on me.
The joke had always been on me.
He had been the one pulling the strings the entire time. And now, as the blade pressed harder against my pulse point, the terrifying truth settled into my chest: I wasn't escaping Blackthorne.
I was going to die here, just another piece of discarded wreckage left in the Jester's wake.
Heavy, frantic footsteps echoed from the opposite end of the corridor. Two guards rounded the corner, their batons drawn, tactical vests tight against their chests. It was Warren and Cooper. They were veterans of the night shift—men who knew exactly what kind of monster the Jester was.
"Drop the weapon, Jester!" Warren yelled, his voice echoing over the blaring klaxons. He leveled his baton, his eyes darting at the blade at my throat. "You won't make it past the checkpoint!"
"Oh, I think I will," the Jester laughed, a manic, wild sound that sent a chill straight to my bones.
He pressed the blade harder into my skin, forcing my head back.
"Open the gate, or I open her throat. It’s a very simple equation, boys.
I'm sure you can even do the math." Cooper glanced between me and the security gate, indecision etched on his face.
"Cooper, don't," Warren hissed, his face pale beneath the flashing red emergency lights.
Cooper looked directly at me, seeing the sheer panic in my eyes, the tiny trail of crimson staining my uniform collar. He stepped in front of Warren, lowering his baton. "He'll kill her. You know it's not a bluff."
"We can't just let an inmate like the Jester walk, Cooper!" Warren argued, his knuckles white around his weapon.
"She’s one of ours!" Cooper shouted back, his voice cracked with emotion. He made a split-second decision, reaching for his belt and pulling the master key ring. "I’m not letting Hart die on her last damn day."
Cooper stepped toward the wall panel, his hands shaking as he jammed the override key into the slot.
"Cooper, stop!" Warren yelled, stepping forward as if to grab his partner's arm, but he hesitated, his own gaze locked onto me.
The camaraderie of the guard line, the unspoken rule that we protect our own above all else, warred with his duty to the state.
With a frustrated curse, Warren lowered his baton.
"God damn it. Do it."
The heavy iron gate at the end of the corridor buzzed loudly, the massive deadbolts sliding back with a definitive, ringing clash.
"Good choice, boys," the Jester purred, his grip tightening around my waist as he dragged me backward through the opening gate.
As we stepped into the next corridor of the prison, I looked back one last time. Warren and Cooper stood beneath the flashing red light, their faces heavy with grim guilt.
They had broken every rule in the book to save my life, entirely unaware that the monster holding the knife wasn't just stealing his freedom.
He was taking mine, too.