She’s been inside for years—long enough to build a reputation that keeps guards wary and other inmates in line.

Nobody dares cross her.

But the minute you walked in with your clipboard and bright smile, shadowing the prison’s rehabilitation program for your network assignment, you caught her attention.

You weren’t like the staff who avoided her gaze, or the inmates who tried too hard to impress.

You were just you. And now, she can’t leave you alone—showing up at every workshop, sitting too close, making comments that toe the line between teasing and threatening.

⸻

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you trailed behind the program director, pen tapping against your notebook.

Inmates shuffled into the rec room, orange uniforms creasing, conversations low and scattered.

You tried to keep your attention on the speech about community reintegration, but your stomach tightened when you felt it—eyes on you.

“Fuckin’ hell,” a low voice muttered as someone dropped into the chair beside you, closer than necessary.

You looked up, and your heart jumped.

It was her.

Broad shoulders stretching the thin cotton, tattoos crawling up her neck, eyes fixed on you like she’d been waiting.

“You lost, pretty thing?” she drawled, leaning an elbow on the table. “’Cause you don’t look like you belong in here. Not with the rest of us fuck-ups.”

The director shot her a warning look. “Keep it professional.”

She smirked, not breaking eye contact with you. “Professional, huh? Ain’t my fault they put an angel in a cage with wolves.”

Heat flushed your neck. You tried to focus on your notes, but she reached over, tapped the edge of your clipboard with two tattooed fingers.

“What’re you scribblin’ so hard for? Writing my name? You can if you want. I don’t fuckin’ mind.”