Page 82 of Caged In

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Izz doesn’t wait for a response, ditching his tray and rushing off in his excitementto find Sinn'ous.

Turns out to be easy. Sinn'ous is already waiting for Izz, leaning back against the corridor wall. Much to his relief, he did not want to wander around the prison—alone—to find Sinn'ous. Not after what happened the last time . . .

“You sure you still want to do this?” Izz’s mildly surprised Sinn'ous cares enough to ask.

Rubbing his mouth to hide a little smile—Izz doesn’t want Sinn'ous to think he’s crazy or clingy . . . or something equally embarrassing. He’s excited to get a new tattoo, that’s all there is to it—well . . . maybe he is extra giddy because it’s going to link him to Sinn'ous.

Sinn'ous holds out a miniature water bottle to Izz—it’s half the size of the ones he used on the outside. He frowns but takes the offering, opening his mouth to ask what it’s for—the male opens his fist to reveal two white pills nestled in his palm.

Oh, pain killers.

“The pains not so bad,” Izz murmurs, gathering the medication as he twists the bottle’s lid off.

Only two this time? Why three before?

Izz shrugs off his inner question, pushing it to the back of his mind. It’s not important. He trusts Sinn'ous.

Sinn'ous prowls ahead, leading the way, Izz falling in step behind him. Dumping the near empty miniature bottle in a bin as he hurries to keep up with the male’s long strides. Watching the predatorymaleglidingthrough the corridors like he owns the place. Dangerous and not someone to fuckwith. Other inmates clearing a path, scrambling to move out of his way.

Powerful.

The cell they arrive at is plain and boring, no personal belongings on the shelves. No photos or posters hanging on the walls. Smaller than the cells in his Wing. The only thing in the one-prisoner cell—apart from the skeletons of furniture—are two boxes, nestled on topof the knee-high cupboard, filled with a collection of little glass bottles—must be tattoo ink?

A free-floating chair—rare, considering the prison has a thing for bolting everything to the floor—is pushed against the cupboard, holding a gun like device—the tattoo gun—

Are they called tattoo guns? Or tattoo machines?

This must be the place inmates come for their tattoos. It doesn’t appear very . . . legal . . . Do the guards not know inmates are tattooed in here? He’d never thought if they are allowed to get tattoos or if it’s strictly prohibited. The equipment to do it would have to be classed as contraband, wouldn’t it?

“Where are we?” Izz whispers, stepping in close behind Sinn'ous, attaching himself to the male’s personal bubble. His anxiety is rising at how silent this Wing is, he’d gotten use to how loud prison is, now that the noise is gone, he notices it.

This Wing . . . Is dead.

There are no other souls in the area, no inmates, no guards. He is effectively isolated, in a room with . . . a serial killer . . .

This better not be the time everyone says‘I told you so’as he’s lying in a forgotten prison Wing dying . . .

“I-Wing. It’s unoccupied, no guards will bother us here,” Sinn'ous explains, stepping further into the cell.

The answer does not lessen Izz’s anxiety—

“This your bitch you want inked?”

Izz startles at the new voice behind him, spinning to face the intruder, and backing up into Sinn'ous space, leaning against the male’s solid frame.

Who are they?

The newly arrived inmate is leaning against the cell’s barred door. Cocky grin in place over slightly chubby features. His face is clear of any ink—the same can’t be said for the rest of him. Every fleck of skin Izz can see is covered, including his ears. His prison shirt is worn out and torn in places, revealing inked skin underneath.

Wait . . . ? Bitch . . . ?

Is a ‘bitch’all he is to Sinn'ous?

Does this mean he’d have to . . . tobe with Sinn'ous—he’s not against the idea, he merelywants it to be his decision. Not based on conditions for protection—

Sinn'ous surges forward, grabbing the inmate’s shirt collar, shoving them up against the cell wall, pushing his face in tight to the other’s mug. “You’ll refrain from ever referring to him in that manner.”

The chubby inmate nods, eyes bulging like they’re liable to pop out of their sockets. Izz’s sure his eyes are doing the same. He’s never witnessed Sinn'ous this way. Never seen how aggressive Sinn'ous can be. How quick the aggression erupts to the surface.

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