Prisoner (Criminals & Captives #1)(6)

His comment makes me smile. I’m probably not supposed to. No weakness. But he’s really kind of a bastard.

I hate that I like it.

“You’d have to do extra assignments to catch up.”

Grayson nods, his expression somber. I can’t believe he wants to be here, but then I remember what Esther said, about people who are desperate to tell their stories and sometimes they don’t even know it. Who am I to turn him away?

“You can take my desk.”

“Where will you sit?” Dixon protests, but it doesn’t feel genuine.

My smile is wry. “I’ll stand. I’m not the one who needs to be writing.”

“Go on then,” Dixon says, peering down at his iPod or his phone or whatever he’s pulled from his pocket. He’s not very attentive, but I haven’t minded. I’ve never felt unsafe with the sixteen felons in my class. Until Grayson, who makes me nervous just by looking at me. My gaze falls to his forearm, scarred with white lines. The scarring looks almost deliberate, some kind of an X with strange detailing on the ends. Like a barbarian tattoo.

My gaze snaps up to meet his. He’s seen me staring. He moves toward me with a mixture of distaste and fascination. I finger the top button on my shirt, feeling exposed, wishing I’d grabbed my cardigan from my desk, wishing I’d worn pants instead of a skirt, not that it would matter. I feel like Grayson can see right through my clothes, right through my defenses.

All prison aisles and passageways are roomy, wide enough for at least three guys. Mr. Dixon told me it’s that way on purpose—it makes it easier for the guards to cooperate when a man must be subdued, and it cuts down on prisoner conflicts in passing. But Grayson fills the space. He’s huge, invasive. Alive on my skin.

I move to the side as he approaches, making myself small. “Have a seat,” I say sharply. “We have a lot of work to do.”

In a voice deep and velvety, he murmurs, “Yes, Ms. Winslow.”

Shivers slide down my spine. I feel the way I did the first time he said my name, but it’s stronger now that I can hear him. With just a few syllables he puts me off balance. What will he do with a whole essay?

I watch him saunter on toward the front, sooty brown hair cut short, big, muscular shoulders outlined where his jumpsuit pulls tight. His walk is slow and loose and cool. He moves like he owns the room.

Then he takes my seat in the front, settling in his muscular bulk, shifting slightly sideways, making himself comfortable in the shitty, too-small chair, a barbarian prince on a throne. How is he doing this?

And then he smiles at me.

God, that smile. It should be illegal.

I tear my eyes away, feeling flustered and a little angry, and address the class.

“I was so impressed with the pieces you turned in this week. I felt like you guys really ran with the assignment. The art of memoir is bound up in the small things. A long-ago incident. The way the light catches on something.” I go on with my prepared talk, clutching the papers they’d turned in via Dixon.

The first day of class I’d made the mistake of asking for the guys to recall meaningful incidents in their essays, and I’d gotten a lot of bullshit narratives—stuff about cars, hitting home runs, performing musically, even a tale of a ride on a yacht. Just that broke my heart. So for the second assignment, I’d asked for something small and meaningless. The only guideline: it has to be true. And I would know if it wasn’t.

The results are moving—tales of everyday disappointments and small cruelties they professed not to care about. Protesting too much.

I go on, struggling to stay cool and composed—not easy with Grayson’s gaze heavy on my body. I can see him in my periphery, occupying my desk, the one barrier I had.

And suddenly I realize that he knows it. He knows exactly what he took from me. Control is something he understands. I learned about it too, early on. I learned who to avoid on the street. I learned when to stand my ground. He sprawls there, an insolent lion, thrumming with relaxed power.

It’s cool in the library. Goose bumps cover my skin, and beneath my bra, my nipples turn hard. I want desperately to grab the cardigan off the back of my chair, but he’s there.

I swallow and smile brightly. This is my class, and I’m in control. “Today I want to narrow the scope a little bit more,” I say as if my heart’s not pounding a billion times a second. “We’re going to think about objects. I’m going to have you open your notebooks and list twenty random”—here I raise a cautionary finger—“but specific objects from where you last lived. For example, a fork. But you can’t simply say a fork. You have to say something about it. For instance, where I live, we have this fork in our utensil drawer—my dorm roommates and I got it in a silverware grab bag at a flea market, and it’s the best fork in the place. The other ones we have are from Target and they’re flimsy, but this one, it’s thick and substantial, way nicer to hold, so we always fight over who gets it, because it’s just better—”

A few of the guys are chuckling. Others are exchanging glances and stifling laughter. My face heats when I realize what else my description sounded like.

“Hey!” Dixon barks out; then he goes back to his phone.

I make the mistake of shooting a glance up front, at Grayson. He’s not laughing and tittering like the rest of the class. No, he’s just sitting there, brown eyes glinting. I flash on how big he would be, how it would feel to hold him there. My cheeks heat to an epic burn.