Chapter 5: Cell 405

The Waiting Lobby

The emergency lights flick off with a sudden, loud click, replaced by the harsh overhead fluorescent tubes. The heavy steel door unlocks, and two guards slam it open. I don’t wait around for Kayden to say another word. I grab my briefcase, keep my head down, and practically sprint out of that room. My skin is still burning where his hands held my waist, and my ears are ringing with the raw shit he whispered in the dark.

I push through the heavy security doors and make my way toward the front visitor lobby to turn in my pass. The place smells like cheap floor cleaner and stale coffee. I stand near the front desk, waiting for the guard to stamp my exit papers, when a girl at the check-in window catches my eye.

She looks completely out of place. She’s wearing an oversized beige hoodie, but it doesn’t hide the obvious bump of her pregnant stomach. Her hands are shaking as she fills out the visitor log, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder like she expects someone to jump her.

“Name?” the receptionist grunts, not even looking up.

“Sarah… Sarah Jenkins,” the girl stammers. Her voice is tight, breathless.

I take a step closer, my instincts as an attorney kicking in. When she turns her head slightly to hand over a fake ID, the sunlight from the high lobby window hits her face directly. I freeze.

She has the same sharp jawline as Kayden. The same dark, arching brows. But it’s her eyes that give her away completely: bright, piercing sea-blue. It’s like staring at a female version of Kayden Moro, just younger and utterly terrified. I look down at the logbook she just signed. Sarah Jenkins is a total lie. I know a fake alias when I see one.

I hand my visitor badge back to the guard, grab my coat, and walk straight out the heavy glass doors into the parking lot. The afternoon air is cold, but my head is spinning. I stand near my car, pulling my jacket tight around my shoulders while I keep my eyes glued to the main exit.

Ten minutes later, she walks out.

She’s pulling the hood of her beige sweatshirt down over her forehead, her arms wrapped tightly around her pregnant bump. She walks fast, her head down, trying her best to blend into the gray concrete.

“Hey! Sarah!” I call out, my heels clicking loudly against the pavement as I close the distance between us.

She freezes for a split second, her shoulders locking up, before she picks up her pace. She isn’t running; she can’t with that heavy belly, but she’s practically power-walking toward a beat-up sedan parked near the edge of the lot.

“Wait up,” I say, stepping into her path before she can reach the driver’s side door. “I just want to talk for two minutes.”

She stops, backing up a step, her hand dropping onto her bump like a shield. Close up, her sea-blue eyes are wide with absolute panic. Up close, the family resemblance is almost terrifying.

“I don’t know you,” she snaps, her voice trembling despite her hard tone. “Get out of my way, or I’m calling the guards.”

“You’re not Sarah Jenkins,” I say calmly, keeping my voice low so the people passing by don’t hear us. “Your name is Danielle Moro. You’re Kayden’s sister.”

The color completely drains from her face. She looks like she’s about to throw up right there on the asphalt.

“You’re crazy,” she stammers, fumbling with her car keys, her hands shaking so badly she drops them onto the ground. “I don’t know who the hell that is. Leave me alone!”

“I’m his lawyer, Danielle,” I say, leaning down to scoop up her keys before she can reach them. “I’m trying to keep your brother from going to death row. If you know anything—if he’s protecting someone, you need to tell me.”

She snatches the keys out of my hand, her eyes swimming with sudden tears. “Don’t touch me! Stay the fuck away from me and stay away from Kayden! You’re going to get us killed!”

She yanks her car door open, slides into the driver’s seat, and slams it shut so hard the metal rattles. She starts the engine with a roar, backs out without even checking her mirrors, and speeds out of the parking lot, her tires screeching against the asphalt.

I stand there in the cold air, watching her rear lights disappear down the highway. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting an email from Mr. Cass.

Instead, it’s a short text from an unknown, encrypted prison system number: Touch my sister again, lawyer, and I’ll make sure you don’t live to see the courtroom.

The Next Day

The moment the steel door locks behind me, I know I’m walking into a trap.

Kayden isn’t sitting down today. He’s pacing the small perimeter of the consultation room, the heavy chains around his boots dragging with a harsh, rhythmic clank against the concrete floor. His energy is wild, like a caged animal that’s been taunted through the bars. As soon as his sea-blue eyes land on me, the room temperature drops ten degrees.

“I told you to keep your fucking nose clean, Ruby,” he growls, his voice a low, gravelly threat that vibrates in my chest.

I set my briefcase on the table, forcing my face to stay completely neutral even though my heart is already thumping against my ribs.

“Good morning to you too, Kayden,” I say, keeping my tone deadpan.

“Don’t give me that lawyer bullshit,” he snaps, taking two long, heavy steps toward me. “I know you run deep. I know you think you’re some slick detective who can dig up whatever dirt you want. But my sister is completely off-limits. You don’t look at her, you don’t speak to her, and you sure as fuck don’t follow her into a parking lot.”

I cross my arms, a surge of irritation cutting through my initial fear. “She’s your sister. Truly, I don’t know how you have eyes and ears out there while you’re sitting in chains in here, but I don’t care. I’m your defense counsel, Kayden. I’m trying to keep you off death row, and if she’s connected to this shit, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re playing with!”

In a fraction of a second, he moves. He rises and closes the distance between us before I can even blink. His large, calloused hand shoots out and cups my jaw in a vice grip, his fingers digging into my skin. He shoves me backward until my spine hits the cold concrete wall with a dull thud.

“Let me go, Kayden!” I protest, gasping for air, my hands coming up to grab his thick wrist.

He leans his entire body weight into me, pinning me against the wall. His chest is a wall of solid muscle, his breath hot and ragged against my skin. His blue eyes are completely dark, pure devilish rage.

“You’re biting off way more than you can chew, Little Lawyer,” he whispers dangerously, his face inches from mine. “You think you’re so smart, but you’re going to get yourself ruined.”

My heart is racing, pounding like a hammer against my ribs. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer physical power he has over me even while wearing prison iron. I bring both of my hands up and press them flat against his hard chest, trying to push him back, but he doesn’t budge an inch.

Instead of pulling away, he dips his head down into the crook of my neck. I freeze. He drags his lips slowly over my heated skin, making my entire body go numb, before he suddenly sinks his teeth sharp and deep right into the sensitive flesh above my collarbone.

A sharp gasp escapes my throat as the pain shoots straight through me. He holds the bite for two agonizing seconds, marking me, branding me, before he finally lets go.

The second his grip loosens, fury explodes in my chest. I push him off with everything I’ve got, swing my right hand back, and slap him across the face with a loud, ringing crack.

His head snaps to the side. A dark, possessive smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as he turns back to look at me, licking his bottom lip.

“Go to hell, Kayden,” I spit, my breath ragged, my neck throbbing. I grab my bag, turn on my heel, and walk out of the room without looking back.

The Family Table

By seven o’clock, I’m standing in front of the vanity mirror in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, panicking.

The bite mark on my neck is dark, bruised, and completely obvious. It looks like a savage mark, turning a deep purplish-red against my pale skin. I furiously dab foundation over it, but the makeup barely cuts the color. Desperate, I pull my hair down over my shoulders and pull the high collar of my beige sweater as high up my neck as it will stretch.

“Ruby! Dinner’s on the table!” my mother calls from down the hall.

“Coming!” I yell back, adjusting the collar one last time before stepping into the dining room.

The dining table is set with expensive china and crystal glasses. My dad is sitting at the head of the table, sipping wine, while my mom fusses over the roast chicken. It’s the typical high-society setting I’ve been trying to escape my entire adult life.

I sit down across from my dad, keeping my posture stiff and my chin slightly tucked down so my hair covers the left side of my neck.

“So, Ruby,” my dad begins, cutting into his meat. “Arthur Cass told me you took on that Moro gang leader case. Are you out of your mind? That kind of scum belongs behind bars.”

“I’m just doing my job, Dad,” I say, keeping my voice neutral as I pick up my fork. “Everyone deserves representation.”

“Not trash like him,” my mom chimes in, walking over with a serving bowl. She stops right beside my chair to set the bowl down. She tilts her head, her sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Ruby, why are you wearing a turtleneck in September? It’s warm in here.”

“I just felt a little chilly,” I lie smoothly, taking a bite of salad.

“Nonsense,” she says, reaching down before I can stop her. Her fingers catch the edge of my high collar and yank it down to fix my sweater.

Her hand freezes. Her eyes widen in absolute shock as she stares directly at the fresh, bruised bite mark on my neck.

“Ruby…” my mom whispers, her voice dropping into a horrified line. “What the hell is this?