Page 7 of The Alpha in Alcatraz

Thinking about him fucking me right now? Maybe there is something wrong with me.

“Victor, you need to stop. Guards are going to be here any second,” I say in a commanding whisper, lest they’re already outside and listening in.

Victor turns to me on mention of the approaching guards, red flecks of Tom’s blood sprinkled across his face. “Fuck ‘em. This piece of shit touched you, and he’s going to pay.” He swings another wild fist at Tom’s limp body. “I’m the only one who can touch you.”

Something about the way he says those words makes the heat between my legs intensify.

“You’re the only one I want touching me,” I say. Hopefully, this will help snap him out of it.

Victor looks back at me, astonished, before my office door bursts open, and six men step inside. They’re dressed in full riot gear. Two hold non-lethal shotguns, and they stand behind a wall of four carrying massive see-through shields.

“Get off of the patient and raise your hands in the air,” one of them barks.

“Go fuck yourself.” Victor spits in their direction. He’s met by both shotguns firing in unison.

The beanbags hit Victor with enough force to knock him off balance. He roars a thunderous war cry and drops to his ass. But before he can react, the four shields are on him, with one of the two shotgun wielders tying his hands together with a zip tie.

“Nice of you guys to finally show up,” Victor snarls.

The guard doesn’t speak while he hoists Victor to his feet. Another attaches his shield over his shoulder, and together, the two grab Victor by the arm to drag him out of the room. As he walks, his eyes turn back to me. An impish smile flashes on his face, and before they get him through the door, he winks at me.

And like a schoolgirl with her first crush, my heart melts into my tummy.

“Are you okay, Dr. Quinn?” the only guard who didn’t join in carrying Victor off asks. His shotgun is fixed on Tom’s still body.

“Yes. I wasn’t hurt.”

“What the hell even happened here?” His question comes out more as dumbfounded than interrogatory. No doubt because a patient came to my rescue while they were in the locker room getting armed to the teeth.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Of course I do. Victor all but said it. He’s the only one who can touch me, and what little touching he did earlier was as close to a brand as he could mark me with.

7

VICTOR

“Six days in a padded cell and straight jacket will drive anyone insane. Tell me, Doc, how can that be any sort of treatment?” I throw my hands behind my head and kick my feet up on Sedona’s desk. She undid my cuffs the moment we were left alone in her office. I suppose saving her from a lunatic has its perks.

“It’s old school and brutal, I agree. But this isn’t a typical mental health facility,” she says, putting on her best professional voice. “Or have you forgotten you’re an ‘inmate’?” She emphasizes the word to tease me.

“Forgotten? No. But you’d think saving a doctor would carry some weight with the higher-ups.” I stretch my upper body and hear a satisfying pop with every motion. They brought me straight here out of the cell, and damn, it feels good to be able to move again. “Only thing that kept me sane was the thought of having the first taste of your virgin cunt,” I throw in to make her squirm.

Her cheeks flush a deep crimson, but she isn’t nervous to show it to me anymore. “Speaking of what happened,” —she ignores my crude remark— “will you tell me what happened that day?”

“It came over the intercom that you were in danger, and I started running.”

“Why?” She raises a brow. Sedona’s more confident now. I can’t say I dislike it, but having her melt into me was equally satisfying. “You beat Tom Reeves into a coma he still hasn’t woken from. And I heard that there’s a chance he will have irreparable brain damage if he does wake.”

“Because chivalry has only died in the hearts and minds of the weaker men. And don’t stress over the big bastard. He had brain damage long before I smacked him around. Who knows, maybe the beating will fix him.” I make light of it.

Sedona’s smile, the airy tone of her voice, and the undone top buttons of her shirt are enough for me to know that her questioning is a formality. She has to do it because her superiors expect answers. Where this meeting is really headed is my face between her legs and my tongue inside of her.

“Most of the patients here don’t speak as well as you do.” The tip of her pen is pressed onto a clean page, itching to drip ink and spill my secrets. “Come to think of it, each one of them has an actual diagnosis. You’re an enigma to the board as well as the staff. Care to tell me why you think that is?”

“That’s for the nerds in the lab to figure out,” I answer. “I speak well because I was educated well. I don’t have a diagnosis because there isn’t anything wrong with me.”

“And yet, you’re a murderer.” Her words should sting, but they don’t. They light a spark of pride in my heart. “A serial killer.Calling card and all.” Sedona slides her hand into her desk drawer and pulls from it the little origami panda I left at every execution. She sets it on the table beside my foot.

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