Spoilers for the series are in these chapters. If you haven't read the other books, don't start here. 😉

When the guard at the maximum-security federal prison comes to tell me I have a visitor, relief floods my chest. Carys's appearance has the same effect on me every single time. One month, near the start of my prison sentence, I told her not to bother coming anymore. So, she didn't. No note through Brad, the lawyer, or any other way for me to know she was fine. I lost my fucking mind. Didn't take long to realize my mistake. Maybe I shouldn't want her here, but it's better to know she's okay than to sit wondering.

The next visitation, I met with her. We didn't mention how I tried to cut her off. That month of sheer panic was enough to put those thoughts out of my head for good. Is it fair? Probably not. She deserves to find someone else, to start over, to make a life for her and her son Lucas without me. Doesn't seem to matter how many times I've said that to her, she won't see our situation for what it is.

Pleading guilty to twelve consecutive life sentences to save her from a bunch of trumped up charges was the right thing to do. I'm glad she's enjoying her life on the outside, and I shouldn't be part of it anymore. I can't seem to make myself say those words. Selfish. We're trapped in an endless loop of fleeting visits.

As soon as I spot the top of her blonde head through the glass in the visitation window, my heart thumps, and the tension from being locked in here eases a fraction. Just the sight of her does that to me—makes being here both totally worth it and the worst thing I've ever done.

Her amber eyes scan me, and there's the tiniest furrow in her brow. Must be the lovely shade of blue on my cheekbone. As the new guy, I have to prove myself. My reputation precedes me, and everyone wants their shot. Just how hard is he? There's always a bruise on me somewhere—lots of the hits are cheap. This time, the lucky asshole landed a single decent punch before I got him down. When I was pulled off, the guard told me I should be thankful they weren't putting me in isolation. Any other week and I wouldn't have cared but leading up to visitation days, I mind my temper. My meetings with her are the only thing I give a shit about, and the guards aren't dumb. Doesn't take long to see a pattern.

Carys wants to ask about my bruise. Concern is etched on her face, but she knows I won't answer. What goes on in here won't make her feel any better about the choice I made. Answering to other people all the time—when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit—is slowly eroding my sanity. By some miracle, I've still got her. I'm not tainting our connection with reality. Neither of us can change where I've ended up.

I slide into the seat across from her with the glass partition separating us, and she picks up the receiver. I grab mine and drink her in. Her blonde hair is loose, which is the version of her I like best. Reminds me I get the real her, the woman very few other people see.

I clear my throat of the lump that forms when I realize I'll never touch her again. "How was your flight? Did you bring Lucas?"

"We're all here, holed up in the hotel." She gives me a small smile. "I have news."

News? I brace myself for the worst, but I keep my expression neutral. Has she met someone else? Has she realized flying back to America every month is a waste of her time?

"Brad is securing a transfer for you to another facility. A lower security prison." Her gaze connects with mine. She's trying to communicate something I can't catch. Those non-verbal cues between us are covered in rust. "All you have to do is stay out of any fights for the next week, and we can push the transfer through. Keep a lid on your temper, okay?"

A chuckle escapes me, and I turn away. Her warning isn't funny, but it kinda is. Does she think I go looking for these fights? These assholes find me, not the other way around. The big guys running this place are worried I'm going to make a powerplay. At some point I will, once I've determined who I want on my team. That'll take a while. Right now, I want to survive until Carys's next visit. Not much of a life, but it's the only one I've got.

"Why is that funny?" She squares her shoulders and almost glares.

"No reason," I say. "I'll do what I can."

"You'll have more chances." She gives me another meaningful look I can't read. "More opportunities at a medium or low security prison."

"They're not going to move me, Carys. I'm a high risk for being an asshole." Normally, I'd be a tremendous risk for a different maneuver, but I don't have the resources or the clout for that anymore. Then it clicks, and my eyes narrow. Is she trying to position me for a breakout?

Her jaw clenches, and she purses her lips. "Money talks. With enough cash, you can do anything."

This time I'm the one struggling to communicate, and I stare at her, hard. "I'm in here to protect you. You got me? So anything that might get you into trouble shouldn't be happening."

The barest hint of a smile. We've landed on the same page, and that makes her happy, but we're reading a different book. I want out of here, but not if she'll have her fingerprints smeared across the jailbreak.

"Having you moved is no problem." She eases back into her chair and twists the bracelet on her wrist. "There's no need to worry about me. I know what I'm doing."

"Bullshit." My nostrils flare, and I lean forward, the glass blocking me from getting too close. "Leave it be."

"Time's up!" The guard behind me moves closer. Carys and I often linger, needing more reminders to call it quits.

This time, she stands up, the receiver still pressed to her ear. She peers down. "Let's get one thing straight, okay? I'll never leave you be as long as you're in this prison. You got me?"

Another spark of anger flares between us. There's nothing I can do about her choices from in here, and we both know it. The best I can do is refuse the transfer when it comes. "Yeah, I got you. But I'm not letting you fuck up your life."

"We're already there. Now, I'm fixing it." Before I can say another word, she drops the receiver in the cradle and slings her purse over her shoulder.

The determined set of her jaw isn't a good sign. Desperation makes people do stupid things. She's likely to literally bulldoze her way into the lower security prison if she needs to. Neither she nor Jay has the knowledge to pull off a quiet escape.

I pound on the glass, the receiver still dangling from my hand as she walks away. Her ability to end a conversation whenever she wants is infuriating.

"Not a good visit today?" the guard muses.

Seems to be the way things go with Carys lately—drama dogs us. Either she tells me something I don't like, or we stare at each other, wishing we made different choices. When? Who knows? I've been making bad decisions since I crawled out of the womb.

The guard leads me back to the cell, and I catch a couple of guys giving me the once over. Something is coming, but I don't know what. I'm glad I didn't make any promises to Carys about staying out of trouble. Until I've established my dominance, or someone kills me, there's no peace in here. The last time I had to stay this alert was when I was fighting in the cage. So much money rode on those fights, that at any moment, a rival might be looking for an advantage. A quick bout in the streets, a cheap round meant to keep me down, was a possibility wherever I went. Never worked—no one could pin me.

I'm twenty years older, but I'm also wiser. Threats are easier to spot now. The energy vibrates off a guy, as though he needs to psyche himself up. Most people telegraph what they're going to do at least a split second before it happens. More than enough time to react. Step out of the way, hit first, or let them punch me because it'll give me a better angle to hit back harder.

The something doesn't strike until we're headed to our cells from the mess hall. We're paused at the door to our unit waiting for the guard to release the lock, the most volatile stage of the walk. My food hasn't even had a chance to digest before the guy behind me hunches his shoulders and telegraphs his move. I may not be able to see him, but instinct kicks in.

He takes a step and swings, and I duck. His knuckles skim the guy's neck in front of me. I spin and pummel the hulking man. One. Two. Three. Each uppercut is aimed at nailing his liver. Steal his breath. Sharp, shooting pains should be migrating across his frame. When he cries out and sinks to his knees, I step back. Those rubber legs coming off the liver punch are a bitch. Done right, no one walks away from that body shot.

Once he's moaning on the ground, I throw out my hands and stare at the rest of the block in my line. "Anyone else?"

"All right, Donaghey," the guard says without a trace of humor. "Back to your cell."

He doesn't mean my cell. Another guard will be coming to take me to isolation. I might have gotten away with a self-defense claim or at least having the guard ignore the quick scuffle if my cockiness hadn't spilled out. The prison calls the question I asked inciting violence. I call it taking care of business.

Later, when the door to my solitary confinement slams closed and the lock clicks into place, I sink into the mattress and run my hand along the top of my short platinum strands. Perhaps Carys had a point about my inability to stay out of trouble.

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