The first thing I noticed upon waking was that I was not dead, which, frankly, was a little disappointing.
After everything last night—cheating a gang boss out of his dignity, inventing an entire genre of "bodily-fluid-based gambling strategy," and collapsing into Brutus’s arms like some fainting maiden from a third-rate opera—I had half expected to open my eyes and find myself roasting on a spit somewhere, being basted in garlic butter for the amusement of the Boss’s men.
Instead, what greeted me was softness. Sheets. Warmth. A pillow that smelled faintly of iron, musk, and something distinctly Brutus-shaped.
Which meant, of course, that I was in Brutus’s bed.
Now, if you’re imagining "Brutus’s bed" as some cozy, four-poster wonder with silken sheets and rose petals—stop. Right there. This was prison. A bed here meant a slab of wood with a mattress so thin it could qualify as a tortilla, a scratchy blanket that had probably seen more fluids than any half-strung brothel, and, most importantly, the unmistakable body heat of one big-eared, broad-shouldered idiot who was far too close for my own sense of safety.
And oh yes—I was naked of course. Covered only by sheets. Which was either very thoughtful of Brutus, or very incriminating, depending on how one chose to interpret his motives. I chose incriminating, because that was more fun.
I turned my head, which felt like someone had replaced my brain with a sack of wet sand, and sure enough, there he was. Brutus, sitting slumped forward on his knees beside the bed, chin tucked against his chest, breathing slow and heavy.
His ears twitched occasionally even in sleep, like metronomes keeping time with his dreams. And the way his big, scarred arms were folded across the mattress’s edge, almost draped protectively near me—well. It made me feel like a treasured object. Which was revolting, obviously. I hate being treasured. It gives people the wrong idea.
So naturally, I opened my mouth.
"Morning big guy," I croaked, my voice a cocktail of gravel and last night’s bad decisions.
Brutus jolted awake like someone had stuck a cattle prod where the sun doesn’t shine. His head snapped up, golden eyes wild, mouth half-open in something between a snarl and a startled yelp.
For a split second, he looked like a wolf caught gnawing on the furniture. Then he blinked, saw me awake, and the feral panic melted into something far too composed.
"You’re awake," he said flatly, voice rough with sleep.
"Yes," I said sweetly, stretching one pale arm above the sheet, careful to let it slip just enough to expose one delicate shoulder. "And alive. Disappointing for some, I’m sure. Especially you—don’t pretend you weren’t hoping I’d stay unconscious so you could keep ogling."
His nose twitched, a traitorous flick, but his face remained stoic. "No one was ogling," he muttered, settling back unto the bed like a man trying very hard not to look guilty.
"Oh please," I sighed, dragging my hand lazily down my chest beneath the sheet, enjoying the way his gaze fought valiantly not to follow. "You carried me all the way here, tucked me into bed, and then fell asleep drooling on my pillow like a loyal guard dog. If that’s not ogling, it’s foreplay."
His lips twitched, the barest ghost of a smile—or maybe a snarl. Hard to tell with Brutus. He huffed, trying for dismissive. "You were heavy. That’s all."
I barked out a laugh so sharp it made my ribs ache. "Heavy? Darling, I’m practically made of sins and eyeliner. You could carry me with one hand and still have the other free to swat away your fan club."
For a moment, he said nothing, only studied me with those infuriatingly calm eyes. But then, against his better judgment, the corner of his mouth curved up. Just slightly. Enough to ruin his entire air of stoic detachment.
And that—well. That ruined me a little.
Because suddenly, beneath all the teasing and smutty-jokes, there was this gnawing warmth in my chest. Gratitude, or something nauseatingly close to it. I hated it. Hated how my voice softened before I could stop it.
"...Thank you," I said quietly, meeting his eyes. "For carrying me. For... not letting me drop like a sack of turnips on the floor. It’s more than most would’ve done."
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at me with that unreadable expression, then finally gave the softest, smallest smile I’d ever seen crease his scarred face.
"You’d have done the same," he said simply.
The words sat heavy between us. For once, I had no witty retort. Just silence, and the warmth of it, and the embarrassing realization that I might actually like this man. Just a little.
Which, of course, was when a knock rattled against the cell bars like a gong at a funeral.
"Free time," a guard’s voice called, bored and nasal. "Section rotation’s up. Get moving."
I perked instantly, like a cat hearing the can opener. My whole body lit up with energy that had definitely not been present thirty seconds ago.
"Free time?" I gasped, already wriggling beneath the sheets. "Why didn’t you say so, Brutus? Gods, and here I thought prison was all gloom and doom. But no—we get recess! Do we get snacks too? Juice boxes? Nap time?"
Brutus gave me a long-suffering look. "It’s an incentive for the sections in rotation. A few hours to trade, socialize, make deals. Keeps the workers from revolting."
I kicked off the sheets with far too much enthusiasm, springing to my feet stark naked. "Well, color me incentivized."
The guard outside groaned audibly at the sight, rolling his eyes. "Put some pants on, freak."
I blew him a kiss. He gagged and stomped off.
Brutus sighed—the sigh of a man who regretted every life choice leading him here—and reached under the bed. He pulled out my clothing: scandalous skirt, lingerie, ragged blouse, and stockings with more holes than fabric. My signature ensemble.
"Thank you, darling," I purred, snatching them from his hands and shimmying into them with all the grace of a stage performer. "A man’s gotta keep up appearances."
Fully dressed—or at least, legally covered—I swept toward the barred door with Brutus in tow. The gate clanged open, and just like that, we stepped back into the heart of the prison.