“What do you want?” Fucker Number one recovers in time to draw his gun, but it flies out of his hands before he has a chance to use it. Then, someone from inside the house starts screaming, raising my hackles.

An old woman comes running out of the house with a baseball bat, tripping over her slippers and nightie as she goes.

Fuck.

I don’t hurt old ladies.

Goddamnit, I have to somehow take her down without laying a hand on her.

“This isn’t about you,” I yell at her.

Fucker Two suddenly remembers he has a gun, and Fucker One uses the distraction to launch himself at me, hitting me square in the chest. “You cunt.”

A laugh rumbles out of me right before I bury my fist into the prick’s ribs and swing my head forward, using the helmet's weight to connect with his forehead.

He rears back with blood spurting from his nose, the bottom half of his face drenched in the beautiful crimson.

“Get away from my sons!” their mother screams. I don’t get to appreciate the sight of the dark red splatter over his pale skin, because I stumble forward when pain tears through my back.

Helmets are great for anonymity, but fucking shit for visibility.

“Fuck off.” I throw my hand back with a snarl and yank the bat out of the culprit's hands. The lady yelps from being thrown off balance. But then her screams turn into words. Only a single word, Help.

Fucker Two aims his gun at me. “Don’t you fucking touch her.”

They can’t see my grin as I say, “That’s my line.” I tilt my head to the side, eying the gun. “You weren’t planning on using that on me, were you?”

I swing the wooden bat before he manages to pull the trigger. Those things are great, but they’re shit for close combat, which is why I prefer my fists. Using a gun doesn’t give me the same satisfaction as pummeling someone’s head in until they’re an unrecognizable pile of flesh and bone.

He cries out as the weapon is ripped out of his hands and lands by their mother’s feet. Fucker One returns, hunched over, charging forward like a raging bull. I lift my leg before he makes contact, sending him careening backward just as Fucker Two swings his arm.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as the woman runs toward the gun on the ground.

And then red and blue lights flash.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

One of the twins lands a hit on my ribs, making me grunt. I grip the bat, raise it in the air and aim it at his head.

“Stop!” she screams.

Bang.

Another scream.

Yelling.

But my arm never moves. The bat doesn’t come crashing forward. I’m frozen. I just stare at Fucker Two as he gapes at me. Then slowly, questioningly, he drops his gaze to my chest.

And then I feel it. A prickle at first, like static along my skin.

Suddenly, it’s a burn, scorching hot, searing into my flesh as if I’ve been set on fire, though I never saw anyone light the match. The pain thunders through every molecule of my being, setting every hair and cell in my body ablaze. I feel so cold.

I look down to find my hand already on my chest. Trembling fingers pull away to a liquid sheen that catches the light on my leather gloves.

My body gives out beneath me, and my knees crash against the concrete. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Pure agony. The basement was better than this. The belt hurt less.

The burning worsens, swirling, until dots dance in my vision. As the world turns bright, something rough hits the back of my head. It’s not so dim anymore. The sounds are clearer. But I can’t make out any of them. Something presses against my chest. I want to scream, yell, yank this pain out of me.

I can’t breathe. It hurts too much. I can’t—oh, God. I’m going to die.

No.

No.

Bella.

Who’s going to watch over Bella?

Who’s going to take care of my princess?

I can’t die. I need to take her to school. I have to make sure she’s okay. I have to be there for her. What if she forgets to bring her inhaler again? What if she doesn’t have enough money for lunch, or has a nightmare?

No. I can’t leave Bella. We finally kissed, and in one year, it’ll be just us. We’ll be going around the country to camp by the beach and see New Orleans, just like she always dreamed of. I’m meant to take her back to Disneyland and give her everything she’s ever wanted.

We haven’t gotten our high energy dog that’s been trained to protect Bella. Or flown to Italy so she can have authentic pizza, and to Greece to relive our ancient history obsession. I’m meant to be putting three kids in her, and we’re supposed to have an unconventional wedding, where she’d wear a white dress and start crying as she walks down the aisle.

I can’t die. I won’t.

But I can’t fight it.

The last thing on my lips when the lights go out is her name. "Bella."

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter 13

ROMAN

Three Months Ago

Roman: 22 years old – Isabella: 19 years old.

“Inmate 25963, today’s your lucky day.”

It takes far too much physical effort to look away from the piece of paper in my hands to Rico’s stupid face. I’m not a portrait artist, but I’ve had nothing but time on my hands to try to draw her. This particular one is my favorite piece.

I managed to get the soft bow of her lips, the sweeping lashes framing big almond-shaped brown eyes, and the little dot on her left cheek. It’s the only way I can see her in this shithole, and I don’t want to forget what she looks like.

The drawing doesn’t come anywhere near the real thing. I could spend a lifetime perfecting my skill, but I will never do her justice.

Adjusting the hand beneath my head, I sink farther into the cot before finally looking at Rico, who’s leaning against the bars with his arms crossed over his chest.

I smirk. “Jealous?”

He whistles and shakes his dark brown hair, then nods at the drawing. “Going home to that pretty thing? Damn right, I am.”

My lips peel back. “Careful,” I warn.

Chuckling, he walks the two steps to the opposite bunk and pulls himself onto the top one. “Two more months, and I’ll be back on my shit. I ain’t never seeing the inside of this place again.”

Over two years and nine months away from Bella almost killed me. I’ve memorized every inch of this place. I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about breaking out of here. I even planned it all out in my head. I have studied the delivery trucks, the laundry rotation, and when the lazy guards are scheduled.

But each time I’m about to act on it, I stop. I have a higher chance of staying here longer than I do of getting out. No one has escaped this place in over fifty years. I’m cocky, but I don’t know if I’m delusional enough to think I could pull off a prison break. In fact, I’ve been on my best goddamn behavior, which is so unlike me. Bella would be shocked.

I’ve been practicing what the Shrink Arthur calls ‘flat hands.’ It’s where I use my palms, not my knuckles. The only time my fingers curl into fists is when it’s wrapped around a dumbbell or a bar of weights to channel my energy.

It’s some hippy-dippy bullshit, if you ask me. But it fucking works—sort of.

How many fights have I gotten into?

Six.

How many do the higher-ups know about?

One—but I proved I wasn’t at fault.

I’m a pillar in this community, an example to the other inmates of what a great prisoner looks like. I took English lit classes—not containing the dirty types of books that Bella reads, obviously—and I even had Arthur convinced I was interested in religion. Not like it was much of a choice. I was bored out of my mind and couldn’t use my arms while I was healing, so I had to pick something that made it seem like I was a half-decent person. Once I had full mobility, I flashed my finger at the man upstairs and started breaking my back at the garage they have here.