Chapter 11 – Killian’s Shadow
Pike
“What the hell happened to your face—and your hands, man?”
My coworkers gawk like they’ve never seen blood before. Guess it would be a shock to anyone else. Split lip, black eyes, and my hands wrapped like I just crawled out of a fire. To them, I look like I went twelve rounds with a freight train.
“Motorcycle accident,” I mutter, forcing a grin. “Hell of a ride.”
“Yeah, looks like it,” one says, wincing. “How’s your bike, man?”
In pieces.
In Killian’s shop.
Or what’s left of it, anyway.
They made me watch—every smash, every snap of metal—until the machine I loved more than most people was nothing but shards on the concrete.
“It’s fine. In the shop,” I lie, flat and dry.
“Well, that’s good, man. I know how much you love that bike. Glad they can fix it.”
“Yeah,” I reply, voice hollow.
I can’t stand their pity. Can’t stand their eyes. So I push off the counter and grab my keys. “I’ve gotta do wake-up in Hall Two.”
I leave the break room without another word, boots dragging against the tile. The halls flicker to life as I walk—one light at a time, buzzing overhead, the low moans of half-asleep inmates echoing through the walls.
“Rise and shine, bitches!” I bark, voice sharp enough to cut the quiet. “Get up! Let’s move!”
Grumbling. Curses. The usual chorus.
By the time I reach her cell, she’s already awake. Sitting on her cot. Still as stone.
Amara.
She looks worse today. The shadows under her eyes are darker, carved deep into her pale skin. Her hair’s a tangled mess, black waves sticking out like storm clouds.
“Rough night?” I ask.
She jumps, startled, like she hadn’t even heard me coming. Whatever she’s been thinking about, it’s got her locked in tight.
“Is it morning already?” she asks, voice quiet.
“Yeah. Been sitting there all night?”
She doesn’t answer. Just lowers her eyes, staring at the floor like it’s safer than looking at me.
I sigh, scratching the back of my neck. “Listen, kid—it’s not so bad in here. Why don’t we get you something to eat, huh? I can introduce you to some nice girls.”
“I’m not a kid,” she murmurs. “And I’m not nice.”
Still won’t look up. Still somewhere far away.
What the hell’s going on with her? Cracking already? Killian’ll want to know.
“Well, nobody in here’s nice,” I say, trying for humor. “But hey, they won’t kill you. So that’s something. Come on—snap out of it. Hasn’t even been a week.”
She lets out a breath—soft, broken. “You’re right. It’s been years.”
“What?”
“I’ve been in prison for years,” she says. “This is just a different kind. One without good food, sex, or friends.”
“Uh…”
What do you even say to that?
If Killian’s after her, I can only imagine the hell she’s been through. Nobody draws his attention without paying for it.
“What do you mean, inmate?” I ask carefully.
She shakes her head, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. For the first time, she looks at me—really looks—and I swear I see something broken flicker there.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says softly. “I’m awake. I’ll be at breakfast shortly. Thank you, Guard.”
Guard. Not Pike. Guard.
That one stings more than I’d admit.
I sit down on the edge of her bed anyway, ignoring the rules, ignoring the voice in my head telling me to walk away.
“You know,” I say after a moment, “this might be the first conversation we’ve had where I didn’t wanna smack the taste outta your mouth.”
She lets out a small laugh—real, this time. “You do make it easy.”
“Yeah, well…” I glance at her hands. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. What happened?”
She tilts her head. “What happened to you?”
I huff. Fair question. “A man showed me the error of my ways.”
She frowns. “Huh?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach into my pocket, fingers brushing the envelope I’ve been carrying since dawn. It feels heavier now. Dirtier.
I pull it out and hand it to her.
Her eyes flicker—confused, wary.
“Killian says hello.”
The words hang there, thick as smoke.
She freezes, lips parting, breath catching sharp in her throat. Her hand trembles when she takes it, and for a second, I almost want to take it back.
Almost.
But orders are orders.
She stares at the envelope like it’s a loaded gun.
And maybe it is.
As I turn to leave, a chill crawls up my spine. Whatever’s in that letter, it isn’t a message—
It’s a warning.