Chapter 2: Cell 405
The Unwanted Reflection
Cold Air, Cold Mind
The heavy iron door slams shut behind me, and the sound echoes like a gavel strike. I don’t look back. I walk fast, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. The prison guards yell something, but I ignore them. My heart hammers against my ribs, loud and fast, as if it’s trying to escape my chest. I reach my car and fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly that I drop them twice.
I start the engine and sit there for a long moment, staring through the windshield. The air inside the prison was stale, but the outside air feels cold and sharp. I take deep breaths, forcing my professional mask back into place. He is a client. A dangerous, manipulative client who knows how to push buttons. That is all. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, but the memory of his sea-blue eyes stays burned into my mind. I can still feel the ghost of his breath on my ear and the way he looked at me like I was already his. I put the car in gear and drive away, needing to put as much distance between us as possible.
Searching for Monsters
My apartment is usually my sanctuary, but tonight, the silence feels heavy. I discard my blazer on the sofa and pour a glass of water, my hands finally steadying. I should be working on the motions for the case, but I can’t focus. I walk to my desk and open my laptop. The screen flickers to life, illuminating the dark room.
I type his name into the search bar: Kayden Moro. The results load instantly. There are dozens of articles, police reports, and tabloid pieces about him. “Kayden Moro: The King of the Northside Gangs.” I scroll through photos of him in handcuffs, in court, and in grainy surveillance footage. In every shot, he looks just as lethal as he did in that room. There are headlines about racketeering, assault, and a brutal murder that left the city in shock. He isn’t just a tough guy; he’s a shark. He built a reputation on violence and fear. I read about his gang’s territory and the things they do to anyone who crosses them. It’s dark, it’s ugly, and it’s a world I have never been part of. Yet, as I stare at his face on the screen, I don’t feel the fear I expect. I feel a weird, magnetic pull.
I close the laptop and head to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower feels good against my skin, washing away the smell of the prison and the tension of the day. I stand under the spray for a long time, trying to empty my head. I scrub my skin until it’s pink, trying to erase the feeling of his gaze. When I step out and dry off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look tired, but my eyes are bright, reflecting a confusion I don’t want to admit.
I crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I tell myself to sleep. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, on the quiet of my apartment, on the mundane reality of my life. But the moment I drift into that half-awake state, his face appears behind my eyelids. I can see his smirk. I can hear his low, gravelly voice describing exactly how he wants to ruin me. I turn onto my side, then my back, then my other side, but there is no comfort. Kayden Moro is in my head, and no matter how much I tell myself he’s just a bad boy with a bad record, I know the truth. I can’t stop thinking about him.
The Calculated Risk
The morning sun feels like a spotlight as I stand in front of my bedroom mirror. Usually, my court attire is a shield—stiff, high-collared, and utterly neutral. Today, I choose a different weapon. I slide into a navy-blue corporate dress that fits like a second skin. It’s professional enough to pass the gate, but the hem hits mid-thigh, and the neckline is a sharp, plunging ‘V’ that hints at the lace underneath. I tell myself it’s an interrogation tactic, a way to throw him off his game and break his silence. I leave my hair down, the dark waves falling over my shoulders, and apply a coat of sheer, glossy red to my lips. If he wants to play a game of distractions, I’ll show him I can play too.
The drive to Blackwood is a blur of adrenaline. I sign the visitor’s log with a flourish, the guard at the desk giving my legs a second look before buzzing me through. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest, but my face is a mask of cool, legal stone.
The heavy door clicks shut, locking us into the familiar, cramped silence of the consultation room. Kayden is already there, his large frame hunched over the table, his sea-blue eyes tracking me from the moment I cross the threshold. I don’t sit down immediately. I walk a slow circle around the table, the click of my heels the only sound in the room.
“How are we doing today, Kayden?” I ask, my voice smooth and practiced.
He doesn’t answer. He just leans back, his gaze raking over my exposed legs and the curve of my waist with a slow, hungry intensity. He’s not even trying to hide it. I pull a folder from my briefcase and slide it across the cold metal toward him.
“I need you to sign this authorization,” I say, leaning over the table just enough to catch his scent again. “It allows me to access your medical records from the night of the arrest. If we can prove you were injured before the altercation, the murder charge loses its teeth.”
He doesn’t look at the paper. He looks at me. “I’m not signing shit, Ruby,” he grumbles, his voice like grinding stones. He shifts in his chair, the chains on his wrists rattling. “But if you’re so desperate to find evidence, why don’t you come here and verify the mark the police missed? On my chest. Left side.”
I hesitate, my breath catching. “I have the police photos, Kayden.”
“The photos are garbage,” he mocks, his blue eyes flashing. “The serpent tattoo has a scar running through it. Evidence of the first strike. Or are you too scared to get your hands dirty, Little Lawyer?”
I shouldn’t do it. Everything in my training tells me to stay on my side of the table. But the air between us is thick, heavy with a heat that I can’t ignore. I walk around the table, my heart thumping against my ribs so hard it hurts. I stop inches from him. He smells like the storm I dreamt about last night.
I reach out, my fingers trembling as I grip the edges of his grey jumpsuit. I slowly unzip it, the sound of the metal teeth sliding down feeling deafening in the quiet room. I pull the fabric aside, exposing the hard, bronzed muscle of his chest. The tattoo is there—a black serpent coiled around his heart. I lean in, my face inches from his bare skin, pretending to look for the scar.
Suddenly, his shackled hand moves. It’s a blur of motion. His thumb hooks under my chin, forcing my face up until I’m staring directly into those glowing blue depths. His touch is searing. Before I can pull away, his thumb slides up, pressing firmly against my bottom lip, dragging the gloss I spent so much time on.
“You have wet, tasty lips, Ruby,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate growl. “You’re trying so hard to be the hero. Give it up. Quit this case. Run back to your safe little office before I decide I’m never letting you leave this room.”
“Let go of me,” I snap, my voice breathy and betrayed by my own body. I slap his hand away, my face burning with a mix of fury and desire. I try to step back, to regain my dignity, but he isn’t finished.
He lunges forward in the chair, his hand dropping from my face and sliding down, his palm brushing heavy and possessive over the curve of my hip, pulling me back toward him.
The heavy steel bolt of the door slides back with a sharp clack.
“Steele! Time’s up!” the guard barks, stepping into the room.