out.”
I stood and stepped next to him. “You know they can’t.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice.
“Nothing,” I said pleadingly. “He won’t do anything to me. But I can’t make the same promise for your men if you send them in with batons and pepper spray. He might get a bit miffed.”
“I have to take precautions. The only reason I’m letting this happen is—” He lowered his head again. “—you know why.”
I did know why. Reyes had saved his life. Out in the real world, that was saying a lot. In prison, the weight of that statement multiplied exponentially. “Neil, you never even liked me in high school.”
He scoffed humorously and raised his brows in question.
“I’m a little flattered you’re worried, but—”
“Don’t be.” He grinned. “Do you know how much paperwork is involved when people get killed in prison?”
“Thanks,” I said, patting his arm, really hard.
He pulled out my chair. “You sit tight. I’m going to help bring him in. I don’t want any incidents along the way.”
“Okay. I’ll sit tight.”
And I did. My stomach churned with excitement and adrenaline, fear and too much coffee. It was hard to believe I was finally going to see him. In the flesh. Conscious. I’d seen him in the flesh before, but he was either in a coma or unconscious from being tortured. Torture sucked so bad.
A few minutes later, the door opened and I scrambled to my feet as a man in handcuffs stepped halfway in, then turned back toward the burly corrections officer who’d followed. It was Reyes, and his presence took my breath away. He had the same dark hair in desperate need of a trim, the same wide shoulders straining against the orange fabric of his prison uniform, the sleeves rolled up and the sharp, crisp lines of his tattoos visible, curling up his corded biceps to disappear under the faded material. He was so real, so powerful. And his heat, like a signature, snaked toward me the minute the door opened.
The corrections officer looked at Reyes’s cuffed hands then at his face and shrugged. “Sorry, Farrow. Those stay on. Orders.”
Neil walked up then. Reyes was only slightly taller yet seemed to tower over him.
He lifted his cuffed hands. They were attached to a chain that clasped on to a belt around his waist and led down to lock to another set of cuffs at his feet. “You know these won’t make a difference,” he said to Neil, his deep voice washing over me like warm water.
Neil glanced past him toward me. “It’ll buy me a few seconds should I need them.”
Then Reyes looked over his shoulder. For the first time in over a decade, I was looking into the eyes of the real, in-the-flesh Reyes Farrow, and I thought my knees would give beneath me. I’d seen him several times in a much more spiritual sense, when he could come to me incorporeally, but this in-the-flesh thing was fairly new. And the last time I’d seen his corporeal body, he was being ripped apart by a hundred spidery demons with razor-sharp claws. He seemed to have healed nicely, if the surge of sensual adrenaline that now coursed through his veins was any indication.
While I could feel his reluctance to break eye contact, I was sure he could feel the lust that crept up my legs and seeped into my abdomen, a Pavlovian response to his nearness, and somewhere deep inside, I was embarrassed. But I could also feel his desire to tear off the cuffs, partly to spite Neil and partly to remove the table that stood between us. And he could have done it, too. He could have removed the cuffs like papier-mache. But I could also feel his unabated anger, and I was suddenly glad for the camera, for that extra sense of protection, as ridiculous and noneffective as it would be should it come to that.
He stepped to the table, and the light illuminating his face sent my pulse into double time.
His features had hardened since high school, matured, but those mahogany eyes were unmistakable. He’d definitely grown up, in some places more than others. He was still lean, but his shoulders were broad. Their width seemed to make wearing the cuffs even more uncomfortable.
His dark hair and unshaven jaw framed the most handsome face I had ever seen. His mouth was full, sensual, and his eyes were exactly as I remembered. Like chocolate accented with gold and green flecks and lined with impossibly thick lashes. They shimmered even in the unnatural light above us.
Ten years in prison. In this place. My chest tightened at the thought, and a bizarre sense of protection swept over me.
Unfortunately he felt it. He offered a frigid stare. “Tell him we’re fine,” he said, and only then did I realize Neil was still in the room.
I took in a deep breath to gather myself. “We’re fine, Neil. Thank you.”
Neil hesitated, pointed at the camera to remind me, then left, closing the door behind him.
“That’s sweet,” he said as he folded himself into the chair, taking note of the file I had on the table. His chains rattled against the metal when he placed his hands on top of it.
I sat, too. “What?”
He gestured toward the door with a nod. “Gossett.” Then, with an expression of disapproval, he added, “You.” A trace of a humorless grin lifted one side of his beautiful mouth.
I knew what that mouth was capable of, from my dreams, from our encounters, but never in the flesh. “What about Neil and me?” I asked, pretending to be offended. I was too taken aback by him to be much of anything but stunned. “We went to high school together.”
He arched a brow as though impressed. “Well, that’s convenient.”
“I suppose.”
Just then I felt my chair being pulled forward and gasped. He’d wrapped his foot around a leg and was easing me closer to the table.
When I started to protest, he placed a finger from his cuffed hands over his mouth. “Shhh,” he whispered, mischief sparkling in his eyes. After he pulled me to the table, he dropped his gaze to my chest.
The table had stretched my sweater tight, defining Danger and Will Robinson more fully.
“That’s better,” he said, appreciation shimmering in his eyes. Just as I was about to chastise him, he asked, “How long has he known?”
His inquiry threw me. “Who? Known what?”
“Gossett,” he said, glancing back at my face. “How long has he known what I am?”
His question knocked the air out of my lungs. I stuttered as I tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t get Neil killed. “I … he doesn’t know anything.”
“Don’t.” It was a quiet warning, yet I flinched as though he’d yelled at me.
“How did you—?”
“Dutch.” He tsked and tilted his head, waiting, and I realized there was no getting around the truth.
“He doesn’t know, not everything. He’s not a threat to you,” I said, trying to convince both of us. When I’d blurted out the fact that Reyes was the son of Satan to Neil on my last visit, I had put the deputy warden’s life in danger. I knew it the moment the words left my mouth. This was different from my telling Cookie or Gemma. Neil was locked in the same place with him day in and day out. It was honestly one of the stupidest things I’d ever done.
“You’re probably right,” he said, and I almost breathed a sigh of relief. “Who would believe him?” He glanced up and looked right into the camera, the smile he still wore dripping with a silent threat.
I felt as though I hardly knew him, which in truth was the case. Our encounters were always brief and to the point. We rarely had heart-to-hearts, and when we did, they always ended the same way. Though to say I regretted for a moment having sex with a being forged from the fires of sin would be a bald-faced lie. His body — both corporeally and incorporeally — was like molten steel, his passion insatiable. And when he touched me, when his mouth pressed against mine and his body pushed into me, everything else fell away.
The mere thought caused a visceral tightening between my legs, and I sucked in a soft breath.
He watched me close as though trying to read my thoughts, and I wrapped my fingers around the file I’d brought, tried to calm myself. The file held the transcripts from his trial, a copy of his arrest record, and the contents of his prison jacket, the parts Neil could share with me anyway. The psychological profile had been off- limits. And I know they’d tested his intelligence. What’d they call it? Immeasurable?
