The Last Bed

The Last Bed

Jessica A. McMinn

Content warnings: sexual assault | violence | emotional and physical abuse | drug trafficking and use

“ B end over, grab your ankles, and cough three times.”

Those were the first words I heard in this place. Words that cleave my resolve in two as I walk the long corridor, gaze fixed on the back of the guard’s head, trying to think about anything other than those damn fucking words. The man has a bald patch—a scar, actually—and pondering its origins is a welcome distraction from the rattling bars and catcalls whistling out from the cells as we leave the main administration building.

I carry my world in a plastic basket: prison rags of blotchy beige; laceless canvas shoes; a toothbrush; and a cake of soap so obviously recycled that a curl of pubic hair still clings to its dimpled side. There’s a towel, small as it is—reportedly so I can’t hang myself or lynch a fellow inmate. What a comfort that is.

After a lengthy elevator ride, the guard leads me through yet another brightly lit corridor. I haven’t been around so much artificial light before—even after spending the week in remand since my arrest, my eyes still haven’t adjusted to the sharp whiteness of LED lamps. Is this what they hoard their precious electricity for? To banish even shadows from every corner of their world? These lights sting—painfully so. Like staring at the sun. I think I prefer the dark.

I’m too busy rubbing the burn from my eyes that I don’t notice the guard stop; I walk straight into his back. A shameful squeak of pain bursts from my lips as he pushes me away with an irate elbow. The post-arrest beating left my ribs tender and face a bloody mess—among other bruised and broken things.

“You won’t last a day in here,” he sneers.

Fuck you; I’ll last a lifetime if I have to.

We’d stopped before a thick steel door, solid save for a little barred window no larger than the scabby towel they gave me. My visage is displayed on a cracked holoscreen, a short, looped recording taken at the time of my arrest. Fuck, my face was so swollen you can barely see my eyes. It’s gone down now, I think, though maybe the bruising will give me a bit of cred in here. Make me look tough, less like I’m shitting myself.

Bend over, grab your ankles.

A code flickers beneath my mugshot: 38745612-P.

“Alright, 38745612-P—Eden Walsh—this is you,” the guard says, swiping his wrist across the lock panel. The door slides open. “For tonight. We’ll get you settled in your block tomorrow.”

He glares at me, ordering me inside without having to say or do anything. And I obey. Like a frightened fucking little child.

Black scuffs mark the otherwise pearlescent room, like someone’s shoes had scraped every surface in a fistfight. There’s a steel pallet suspended to my right and a toilet tucked away behind it in the back corner. It’s clinical. Cramped, but clean—better than what I’m used to.

“Will I be assigned to D?” I ask, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice.

The guard raises an eyebrow. “Keen to bunk down with the top dog, are you, kid? He’ll welcome someone like you with open arms! Right, boys?” he calls out over his shoulder and a chorus of hoots and howls erupt from the surrounding cells. Faces press against small, barred openings and I catch enough glimpses of hungry eyes and rabid, lapping tongues to send a shiver down my spine. The guard guffaws at my discomfort and slaps me on the back; I stumble further into the cell, my soft-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

“Lights out, kid.”

The overhead strobes shut off as the door swishes closed, chiming cheerily as the lock engages. Silence fills the wing but not for long: a low chant rumbles to life, rising like a slow-moving tsunami on the horizon.

“… eat … ew meat … new meat … new meat … new meat …”

My skin prickles as the chant reaches a crescendo. I cover my head with my hands, trying to block out the calls. Is this how those long-extinct animals felt? The ones our ancestors hunted for food? I feel sick to my stomach. Exposed and vulnerable, locked in a cage. Have I made a terrible mistake?

“ Enough! ”

The shout silences the prisoners like the dead. I can breathe again, but not comfortably. I curl over on myself, feeling more alone than I ever have. I’m not used to this … faceless segregation. I’m used to the slums of overcrowded—over flowing —cities. To too many people crammed onto too little land left above sea-level. To life in powerless shacks with seven other people, all working minimum wage on a factory production line. Out there, I was never truly alone, even when I was on my own—the device in my arm saw to that. It kept me connected with live news and friends via comm links. But now …

My thumb ghosts over an inch-long incision in my wrist, neatly sutured with transparent thread. It had been the Authority’s first act following my arrest—the removal of my device. No warning, no anaesthetic. Just a hot scalpel, burning and tearing as it mined my flesh for something half the size of a fingernail. With one flick, my whole identity—my whole existence—popped out into a dish. Every piece of me was tied to that chip. Without it, I have nothing; I am nothing. I can’t contact anybody. Can’t access the digital archives or consume any media that’s not physically stored on obsolete technology.

It was something I hadn’t considered, when I got myself arrested. Hadn’t considered how … isolating it would be. I felt untethered—adrift, like one of the fluorescent buoys off the coast that marked where the edge of the continent had once been. So far, far away …

“You wanted this, Walsh,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth. “Pull yourself together.”

But it’s not this I want—it’s him . Tarrant O’Connor. My compass. My lifeline.

My lover.

I’ll endure anything to be with him again.

“I’m gonna fuck you up, pretty boy!”

Even this.

“The first night’s always the hardest.”

A disembodied voice echoes through to my cell; I straighten, pulse skipping. “Wh-what?” I stammer, thrown off-centre by the gentle, almost warm tone.

“The first night in the Plunge.”

“What?”

A dry chuckle.

“Where are you?” I dare to demand.

“The next cell. There’s a vent in the wall. Beneath the cot. No, you can’t open it and break out.”

“I don’t want to break out,” I mumble, and edge towards the steel pallet that serves as a bed. The thin, stiff mattress is so unforgiving the springs don’t even buckle as I sit. As hard and cold as stone—just like home.

My thumb rubs the wound again as I clear my throat. “You said something about the Plunge ?”

“Ah, yes. The Plunge—the Plunge cells. That’s where we are. Hundreds of metres below the sea. The Authority’s version of solitary confinement.”

Panic fills my mouth. Solitary? No, that can’t be right. I was only processed hours ago. I can’t be caged here, alone, forever. I’m supposed to be in there, with him .

“We all start in the Plunge, kid,” the voice says with a calming lilt. “As a warning. ‘This is what awaits you if you step out of line.’ But you’ll be alright. Keep your head down and you won’t be back.”

A shiver prickles across my skin and I swallow. “And … what … what about you?”

The man gives a low, purr-like chuckle. “I don’t keep my head down.”

I don’t sleep much that night. There’s a scattering of threats and sexual comments but it’s the silence that gets to me. The silence that reminds me I’m alone. Disconnected. Underwater. That’s really what keeps me awake. Knowing I’m somewhere deep beneath the ocean and water could crush down on me in seconds. I can’t stop thinking about it. The image is persistent; uncomfortable. Like a cold fingertip slipping down my spine.

The man never speaks again. I try to strike up conversation as I lie there in the dark, but he doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t hear me. Maybe he’s asleep. Or maybe—I swallow—he was never there. Fuck. I’m already insane. The Plunge has broken me before I made it to my actual cell.

Before I got to see Tarrant.

The control panel outside my room chimes; it must be dawn. Without my device or even any windows to see the sky, I have no idea what time it is, but the bleary-eyed stare of the guard standing in the doorway suggests someone at the end of a long night shift.

“Congratulations,” the dishevelled blonde woman says dryly. “You’ve survived your first night.” She glances at a holoscreen projected from her device. “Might be the best sleep you ever have in here. Looks like you’ve been assigned to D.”

My heart thumps. D’s the top dog’s kennel—or so they told me in processing. And in here, the top dog is king. Stand by his side and be protected. Get in his way and?—

“C’mon,” the guard says, almost sympathetic. “The quicker you settle in, the easier it’ll be.”

“Keep my head down, right?” I swallow, recalling the stranger’s advice from last night.

“Exactly.”

We take the elevator back to the surface and, instead of passing through the administrative holding cells, turn right towards the main compound. We’re at ground level, as far as I can tell, and I even catch a glimpse of sky as we pass between buildings. I soon see a lot more of it as we enter the caged yard, where inmates are getting their morning sun.

“Oi, get a load of this pretty boy, fellas. Well, I’ll be damned.”

So much for keeping my head down.

All eyes turn to me the moment the door hisses closed. Instinct screams for me to freeze and I do, helpless like the beast I once saw caught in the crosshairs of a rifle in an old, illegal movie. It’s the second time I’ve felt exposed and vulnerable and somehow, I don’t think it will be the last.

Bend over, grab your ankles.

The guard finally turns back and notices I’ve lagged, paralysed at the threshold of the yard. She sighs, her hand travelling to the holster of the sleek chrome pistol at her hip—standard-issue among the Authority.

“Alright, back off, you lot,” she warns, putting herself between me and the hungry inmates. “Give him a chance. He’s not even settled into his bunk yet.”

“Perhaps I can help with that, Fargus.”

The deep, smooth timbre of a man’s voice shivers across my flesh. It colours me with hope, comforting and familiar yet intimidating with anonymity among the crowd.

The guard sets her jaw stiffly but decides against drawing the pistol. “Come along then. The rest of you: back up.”

The inmates part like a sea for this apparent saviour to step forward. I expect a behemoth of a man. Someone dangerous and deadly and covered in scars.

But it’s just a man. A man almost indistinguishable from the swell of beige jumpsuits, with a short crop of dark hair and stubble sprinkled across his cheeks. He’s not much bigger than the others, but he walks like he’s ten feet tall, with his hands low in his pockets and a self-assured smirk on his lips.

It’s him.

It’s really him .

I tremble, knuckles turning white from my fierce grip on the basket as I try to keep my feet. Every inch of my being burns at the sight of him. I can’t act on it. Not yet. Not here.

He steps forward and places a hand on my shoulder, letting it sit there just a little too long. “Welcome,” he says with a feline grin. “Call me Tarrant. I’m your top dog. Let’s get you settled in.”

I nod meekly and follow Fargus, Tarrant falling into step behind me. I’m acutely aware of his presence now. Aware of his proximity, of the heat from his body and whisper of his breath. I set my gaze on the back of Fargus’s head just as I did before. Hair spills from her bun. That’s strange. Every guard I’ve seen has been as immaculate and polished as the Authority’s chrome pistols. Perfect and shiny like the high-rise buildings of the socially important citizens remaining in the world’s capitals—not dirty and broken like the cogs turning aimlessly beneath them.

Cogs like me.

Like Tarrant.

“So where are we taking our new friend?” Tarrant asks Fargus.

“D,” she says without turning. “Reid’s old cell.”

“Ah, we’re going to be neighbours.” Tarrant gives a low, rumbling chuckle. “Lucky me.”

The inmates’ attitude changes now Tarrant escorts me through the yard. Instead of jeers and wolf whistles, it’s now calculating stares and muffled whispers. About me? About Tarrant? It doesn’t matter; it’s forgotten when Fargus scans us through another heavy doorway with the same irritatingly chipper chime from her device.

I expect D Block to be like the Plunge: a long white corridor lined with cells. It’s nothing like that. It’s homely … in a sparse kind of way. We stand in some sort of shared living space, not unlike the abandoned home I used to squat in. There’s a couch; a couple of archaic PKTs (personal knowledge tablets) I thought had gone out of circulation when they started fitting implant devices at birth; equally rare and outdated print journals; and a small refreshments station along the back wall, complete with mugs, a hot water cistern and jars of synthetic tea and coffee tabs. My heart gives a little flip. Out there, I was lucky to find fresh water most days, let alone have something to flavour it with. Anyone with an active device ID can access a daily ration of all-in-one NourishPodz but there’s never anything recreational —food, drink or otherwise. That’s why people like Tarrant?—

Another sound chirps from Fargus’s device and this time, a projection fills the space before her. A guard appears in the flickering image but the message is encrypted and inaudible to anyone but Fargus and her earpiece. She gives a stiff nod and shuts off the message.

“Eden Walsh,” she says. “That’s you. Cell 4. I’ll leave your top dog to give the tour.”

She hurries off, the door hissing closed behind her.

“Well,” he says, sauntering towards me with both hands slung low in his pockets. “That’s your cell. That’s mine.” He gestures flippantly at each door. “Which one do you want to fuck in first?”

I drop my basket and raise my arms to loop around his shoulders as he drags me in for a kiss. His mouth is hot and frenzied as we tumble through the open door of his cell where he pushes me against the wall with a thud. He’s just as I remember—full of heat and hope and hard all over. I gasp a breathy moan as Tarrant sucks my neck, hungrily biting then soothing it with his wet tongue.

“T-Tarrant,” I pant, his knee forcing my thighs apart. He doesn’t listen—doesn’t hear me. Our hips grind together, erect cocks pulsing at the friction through our prison rags. Tarrant’s hands are inside my clothes, tugging the coarse fabric aside to expose me to the chill air of the room. My skin prickles under his hot caress.

“Tarrant … Are we … Can we? The door’s open. Are there cameras?”

Tarrant withdraws and I turn cold. He studies me with smoky intensity, hazel eyes dark as he brings his hand to stroke a tangle of hair from my forehead.

“Baby, I fucking own this place,” he growls. “I do what I want.”

He thrusts two fingers into my mouth and I suck them desperately, tongue curling around each digit because I know what’s coming and I want it. I want it so badly I got myself arrested—locked up just to be here with him.

I press further into the wall, hitching my legs around Tarrant’s hips to brace myself off the ground. Clothes discarded somewhere, Tarrant grips my naked thighs and curls one hand around to enter me. To probe me. To stretch me. To fuck me with saliva-slick fingers. Shit, that feels good. I groan and bury myself in the crook of his neck, hands battling for something to hold, to squeeze—flesh and clothes in lieu of hair, which is cut so short I can’t pull it. It’s hot. Dangerous and sexy. I bite his ear.

Tarrant bucks and slams me into the wall; air leaves my lungs with a hiss.

“That was naughty,” he growls. “Go on. Try it again.”

Brash arousal pulls my lips to a smirk. I lunge, but instead of catching Tarrant’s earlobe in my teeth, he catches me in a searing kiss. His commanding tongue forces its way into my mouth and I melt— whimper —at the long-forgotten pleasure burning through my body until he pulls away.

I slip back to earth. Rejection chills me like ice. I’m about to beg an apology for my boldness when I see him retrieve something from beneath the mattress—lotion or oil or something.

He grabs my wrist and slings me onto the bed like a rag. I land face first into the pillow and am immediately consumed by the heady scent of him. Our bed in the slums stopped smelling like this months ago.

Tarrant swipes a swathe of cold gel across my entrance before mounting me, his hard, slick cock pushing in deep. I moan and grab fistfuls of the sheets. My toes curl and clench.

We lose ourselves in the rhythm of grinding hips and breathy pants. Tarrant’s head comes to rest on my spine, right between my shoulder blades where I’m most sensitive, as he thrusts wildly, pounding me into the mattress with every thrust. Oh God, it feels so fucking good; I suck my lower lip between my teeth to catch a moan.

“T-Tar—” My body clamps hard around Tarrant’s cock as I take hold of my own, pumping in time with his thrusts. “—rant.”

He pulls my wrist away and replaces my grip with his own. Oh fuck, I’m so close. I don’t want it to end, but it feels too good and Tarrant’s so lust-sick he keeps pumping and ramming and pumping and— fuck .

I come, violent but silent with my lower lip between my teeth. Jesus fucking Christ. My body ripples as Tarrant fills me, his dying thrusts pushing deeper despite his fading strength. We collapse to the bed, sweat-soaked and spent, Tarrant coating me like a sheet—like a shield against the world. Everything about this moment is perfect.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, my eyes cracking open to a growing stain, red and sticky, on the bed by my hand. My wrist is bleeding; Tarrant must have popped the stitches when he grabbed me.

“What happened?” he asks, slightly panicked as he rolls off me, bringing my hand close to his face for inspection. “They took your device already?” Lips press against the wound in a tender kiss.

I nod, lightheaded and breathless as Tarrant’s finger traces over the incision.

“Christ, Ede, what’d you do?”

I could have done anything—stolen rations, taken unauthorised leave from work, read a book—but I needed something that would put me away for a while. Something that would assure me of a reunion with Tarrant. I didn’t think getting locked up would mean immediate removal of my implant. Most infractions saw the device deactivated for a day or two, maybe a week—a temporary disconnect as means of rehabilitation towards acceptable social practices. Guess I never do things by half.

“I got caught dealing,” I say, surprisingly sheepish. “Or rather, got myself implicated in your alleged operation. The guys helped pin?—”

“You what ?” Tarrant’s hand curls around my throat, fire in his eyes.

“I couldn’t be out there without you!” I snap, pushing back against him. “The runners aren’t loyal to me, not really. I had no authority, no friends—nothing. Just the lost little pup you left behind. So when I heard Henly was planning a way to get your sentence reduced, I offered to take the fall. They pinned the moonshine tabs on me. Now the Authority’s case against you is weak. You won’t get life. And in the meantime …” I run my hand up Tarrant’s thigh. “I get to be with you.”

Tarrant’s grip relaxes. “When did you get so clever?” he asks, stroking my neck instead.

“I learnt from the best.” I lean forward to steal a kiss.

“Hmm,” Tarrant muses as we part, fingers twirling the hair at my nape. “Let’s hope you’re as useful to me in here.”

T arrant wasn’t exaggerating when he said he owns the prison. As top dog, nothing happens without his approval and if it did, well, there’s hell to pay. Even the guards defer to him. Let him handle minor insurrections so long as it upholds the overall ‘peace.’ I learn quickly that if you aren’t with Tarrant, you’re against him—and that’s a very dangerous place to be.

“Keven’s dealing,” Kon, a short bald man with a limp, mutters in Tarrant’s ear during the morning work order. We’d all been assigned to Podz production—a deal Tarrant most likely arranged with the guards to ensure his crew are at hand if he needs them. From what I can glean, Kon is some sort of deputy—a 2-I-C to Tarrant’s command.

“I put some pressure on that runt, Percy,” Kon continues. “Boy bent easier than a bloody sheet of paper. Sold Keven out almost immediately. He’s having dissolvable tabs of moonshine and phets brought in under your very nose and he’s not even using our runners to do so.”

“So how is he doing it?” Tarrant asks, eyes never leaving the production belt he’s supervising.

“Dunno, boss,” Kon admits sheepishly. “Might require some more pressure. On Keven himself.”

Tarrant clicks his tongue. “That’ll take more than some finger-twisting in the showers,” he mutters. He punches the large red button below the conveyer, bringing the whole line to a screeching halt.

“What are you doing?” the guard shouts. “Still two hours left on this work order.”

“Labeller’s jammed,” Tarrant calls casually. “Need to show the new kid how to fix it. Eden, with me.”

He swings an arm around my shoulder and guides me away from the others. We stop in front of the large machine in the back of the room responsible for labelling and sealing the NourishPodz ready to be rationed. My heart hammers, half expecting Tarrant to ravish me as he so often does when we’re alone. Not that I mind. My lips part in anticipation.

“How much do you love me?” Tarrant asks huskily, his breath hot on my cheek.

“Is getting myself arrested enough or do you need an actual figure?”

Tarrant gives a dry chuckle then offers a quick peck; I suck his lip between mine, trying to claim more.

“I need your help, baby.”

Before I whisper ‘anything’ like a simpering fool, Tarrant hooks an elbow around my neck to direct my gaze.

“See that man over there? Tall, black hair. Scar on his neck?” Tarrant points at the figure he just described with a subtle flick of his hand. “That’s Grey Peter. Don’t know how he got the name, but I do know he’s pretty tight with our friend Keven. Not sharing-a-bed-tight, but tight. He’ll know all about his little drug operation.”

I swallow, nerves dancing as we watch the man kick the synthetic food mixer like he’s trying to bust open an old box. “I … uh … Don’t think I’m the right man for getting intel out of someone.” I’m surprised he’d even ask me this; breaking fingers in dark rooms is hardly my forte.

“Don’t need intel, sweetheart, just a distraction. You head over to his cell during rec time after supper and just … keep him busy. Talk his ear off. Put that beautiful mouth to use.”

I hesitate, and he adds, “You’re here to be useful, aren’t you?”

I’m here because I missed you. “Yes. Yes, Tarrant, of course I am. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.’”

Tarrant flashes his wicked grin and pats me on the cheek. “Of course you will, baby. Now back to work before the top dog notices you slacking.”

T arrant’s gone over the plan three times already and it’s beginning to set my nerves alight. Self-doubt prickles up my arms with each passing second as we wait around the corner in C Block for Grey Peter to return to his cell after supper.

“Got it. And no one else will be here?” I ask again.

“C spends this time in the gym. Apparently, our mate Peter doesn’t care too much about improving his stamina for the betterment of the Authority. Why don’t you go find out why?” Tarrant tucks a blond curl behind my ear, the achingly tender gesture bringing a hot tightness to my belly. “Make sure you give Kon and I enough time to have a nice long chat to Keven about his … ambitions.”

“I will. I promise.”

Tarrant presses a kiss to my temple, as firm and reassuring as a clap on the shoulder. I want to fold into him, to beg for another way to be useful. I’ve never been a smooth talker; I can’t lie my way out of a paper bag. My role with Tarrant’s gang on the outside is supportive—the lookout sent to raise the alarm if a deal goes bad.

I suck in a deep breath. “What if I?—”

“Shh, he’s coming.”

With that, Tarrant disappears down the corridor, canvas shoes whisper-quiet on the scuffed floor.

My heart leaps into my mouth and I try to make my visit look casual and curious. It’s rec time, so the door to C Block’s common room is open, waiting for the inmates to return to their cells for the 9pm headcount. I tuck my hands into my pockets to hide their shaking and step into the empty lounge.

It’s messier than ours; the PKTs and old journals are scattered about the room, one open and dog-eared to an article about refining the flavour profiles of NourishPodz. Horridly dry stuff.

“You lost, little lamb?”

I nearly shit myself. I turn to see Grey Peter fill the doorway, his jumpsuit undone and hair still wet from the showers. His chest is mangled with scars and I realise now that his left eye is colourless—blind.

Grey.

“I, uh …” I swallow the stone in my throat and back away. My calves collide with the couch, knocking me down on my arse. “Just thought I’d … get to know some of the other p-people in here. Hi. I’m Eden.” I stretch out my hand; he doesn’t take it.

“Peter,” he grunts. He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. Immediately my hair goes up. I feel it prickle across my whole body, telling me to run.

“So how you want to do this?”

Do what? I should ask, but the words don’t form.

“I can take you right here.” He shrugs out of his sleeves. “Or we can take it to my cell. Your choice.”

I stare, frozen and afraid as the rest of Grey Peter’s clothes fall to his feet. He steps out of the pooled jumpsuit, kicking at the stubborn pant leg still clinging to his ankle. With a casual stride, he approaches, his half-erect cock level with my eyeline. I try to scoot back on my hands and feet but the couch is behind me; I’ve got nowhere to go.

“Tarrant said you got a good mouth on you,” Peter says. He reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging my face towards his groin. “Let’s find out.”

“No!” I screech and shove myself free. It’s Peter’s turn to stumble now. He falls backward over the low table, knocking PKTs and journals flying. I make a run for the door. He grabs my ankle. I fall on my face, cold cement slapping my cheek as air hisses from my lungs. He’s on top of me now, grabbing my limbs, trying to roll me onto my back despite my flailing protests.

The punch hits me right on the jaw and my lip splits. Blood fills my mouth. Peter lowers his face to mine and kisses me, tongue curling to lap at the wound. His body covers mine so completely, I can’t move—I can’t do anything but stare wide-eyed into his scarred face.

“Mmm, that’s better,” he says, smacking his lips as if savouring the last drop of a particularly tasty Pod. “I always like it when they struggle. What do you say, little lamb? Gonna put on a show for me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, tense every muscle in my body, and hope against all hell that I buy Tarrant enough time to make it worth it.

I stagger back to D Block, arm curled around ribs I’m sure Peter must’ve cracked. Everything hurts—my jaw, my chest, my arse. Blood trickles from my nose and lip and I can already feel it starting to swell, tight and hot.

Tight and hot , I scoff. That’s what he said about me.

Tarrant’s sitting on the couch when I return to the common room, head bowed low in hushed conversation with Kon. The other man notices me first, a bemused grin splitting his lips.

“Oh shit,” he says and my head is so fucked it almost sounds … impressed?

“Eden.” Tarrant pales. I must look worse than I feel, if that’s even possible. “Get out,” he barks at Kon and rises to meet me. I melt into his embrace. I think I start to cry.

Everything passes in a blur. I end up in Tarrant’s cell, on his bed, back against the wall as he blots blood from the cuts on my face. He’s gentle and sweet, but I don’t look him in the eye—I can’t. I just sit there, staring past him at the cold white wall of his cell. When he finishes cleaning my face, he eases himself onto the bed beside me, arm curling around my shoulders to pull me close. Lips press against the top of my head in a long, tender kiss.

“You did great, baby,” he says softly, resting his cheek against my temple. “So brave. I’m proud of you.”

“Did you get what you needed from Keven?” My voice cracks.

“No, I didn’t need to. Grey Peter was the one bringing in the gear. Now, thanks to your … persuasive actions … he’ll be working for me, using my network. Keven is cut off. I retain sole control over the supply of phets and nobody had to get hurt.”

I jerk violently away from his touch. “ I got hurt!” I spit, hot tears filling my eyes. “Doesn’t that matter to you?”

“Shh, baby, of course it does.” Tarrant strokes my cheek and turns my face back towards him. “That wasn’t supposed to happen—it won’t happen again.”

Again . The word sticks in my throat.

“Look, you wanted to be useful, didn’t you?” he asks, fingers twirling my hair. “This is the best way. Once you have power in here, you have to keep it. And I abhor violence, you know that. I gain loyalty through favours, not fear. Always have.”

Free samples —that’d always been Tarrant’s prime marketing move. Share a taste of his finest product and the buyers will always come back. I used to think it was brilliant.

“If I beat up everyone who challenges me, sooner or later, it’ll earn me a stint in the Plunge,” he continues, eyes soft and earnest. “While I’m in there, someone will come for my kennel. It’s what happened to the last top dog and you don’t want that to happen to me, do you? Because if I’m in there, who’s out here with you?” He strokes my cheek. “This is the best way to keep us strong—to keep us safe. You understand that, right?”

I swallow, gaze still distant. He is right, I know that. But it still hurts. It still feels like betrayal.

“I-I …” There’s a tremor in my voice, but I turn to look at him, taking strength from the conviction I see in his dark eyes. “I understand. This is the best way I can help you. I love you, Tarrant.”

He rewards me with a kiss so deep and sensual, it seizes my breath. Our foreheads remain joined long after our lips part, Tarrant’s hand curled around the back of my neck.

“I know, baby. I know.”

T wenty-seven days. Twenty-seven beds.

I’ve been fucked and fondled by so many men I no longer feel anything. Not when Tarrant takes me to the showers after and tenderly scrubs my body clean. Not when he makes love to me in our bed, or wraps me in his arms for sleep. It’s all just business now.

Since coming to our understanding , Tarrant’s been actively recruiting, trying to grow his pack to have presence in every block. I’ve been sent as a peace offering—a bargaining chip—to every cohort not officially aligned with Tarrant, welcoming them into his crew by welcoming them into my body. Drugs were on offer too—the main course, actually; I was just the appetiser.

We’ve had no luck with A Block, nor with H. Most of them hadn’t been phet users on the outside so that makes them harder to sway—harder to please. Doesn’t stop Tarrant from trying, though.

“Just have to try a different tactic,” he says.

I suspect that’ll have something to do with me.

“Big news, boss,” Kon announces, staggering into the rec space. His limp is more pronounced today; maybe he’s been enjoying too many alcohol tabs in his water ration. “Heron Kim’s being released from the Plunge—this afternoon.”

Tarrant drops the weights he’d been crunching; they hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Who’s … Heron Kim?” I ask.

“Former top dog,” Tarrant says.

“Stone-cold nasty son of a bitch,” Kon adds quickly. “As dangerous as they come. And you can bet he’ll be wanting his throne back. Better get a muzzle on him, Tarrant—fast. Before he has time to rebuild his crew.”

Tarrant stretches his neck, then bends to retrieve the dumbbells and return them to the rack. He’s calm but unnaturally so, quietly calculating the situation. But the silence itches like badly woven synth-wool and I have to say something to scratch it.

“Well, what’d he do?” I venture. No one ever talks about what they did to get themselves locked up here, but for them to talk about this Heron Kim the way they did, he must have a rather notorious story. Call it morbid curiosity, but if I’m about to be ordered into this man’s bed, which I don’t doubt is Tarrant’s solution to all this, then I’d at least like to know what I’m up against.

Unlike the first time.

Tarrant and Kon exchange a glance. The silence is killing me. But when Kon starts undressing, I stiffen—and then move to do the same.

Kon’s jumpsuit gathers at his feet and he stands there in his briefs, otherwise making no advance on me. I relax but my eyes are drawn immediately to his left leg, rigid and glinting in the harsh artificial light. A plexichrome exoskeleton—a mechanical brace—is fitted to his leg from ankle to hip. The Authority issue them as alternatives to amputation, where the strength and functionality of a limb is severely compromised but not diseased, and the injured party’s productivity measure is not worth the cost of a neurogenic prosthesis.

Kon presses a button on the exoskeleton and shifts his weight wholly to his right leg. Steam hisses from the loosening seals as the brace depressurises. It opens like a hinged door and Kon pulls it aside. I draw a sharp breath. The limb is a mangled mess of scar tissue and atrophied muscle. Great chunks of flesh are missing where damaged meat has been excised away. His knee is red and swollen, protruding like a boil; the rest of the skin is purple and scaled, dry and cold with poor circulation. The pain Kon must be in …

“My uniform got snagged on the Podz conveyor belt,” Kon says, jaw firm. “Pulled me in. Leg was crushed in the gears.”

“Or so the Authority was made to believe,” Tarrant adds, folding his arms across his chest. “No one speaks about how Kim and his pack held Kon down as they threaded him through the belt like raw synth about to be moulded.”

Everyone is silent as I process that. Kon silently refixes his exoskeleton and redresses. I’ll never look at his limp the same way.

And I’ll never question Tarrant’s methods again.

H eron Kim is released back into the yard at 1436, during the mid-afternoon stretch break. He’s escorted by Fargus and two other guards I’ve not seen before. His hands are bound, and he waits with no apparent urgency as the guards swipe him into the gated outdoor rec area. A heavy silence smothers the inmates like a fire blanket.

“So he still has crew in H,” Tarrant whispers in my ear. He’s standing behind me, arms looped possessively around my waist as I observe Heron Kim’s interaction with the inmates who approach him. One after the other, they clasp hands and embrace him with brotherly back pats. Finally, he turns his attention to Tarrant and I shiver.

He’s tall and hawkish. Long and lithe. Athletic. Strong. His skin’s the colour of raw honey, rich and deep against the sullen beige of his prison jumpsuit. Silky black hair cascades past his shoulder in loose, lazy waves; a silver bolt pierces the centre of his bottom lip. That has my attention. Body mods are rare. Hair dye, piercings, tattoos—all pointless markers of creative expression that have no place under the Authority’s new world order. For Heron Kim to so brazenly persist with this act of defiance … he truly mustn’t give a shit.

He walks towards us. I clench against Tarrant’s embrace. The other man’s jumpsuit is opened to his waist, revealing a splay of ink etched into the shape of a bird in flight.

A heron , I realise. My skin prickles.

“Kim,” Tarrant greets as the tattooed man stops before us.

“O’Connor.” His voice is like oil. A half-smile parts his lips as he pats Tarrant on the shoulder.

And walks off.

T arrant wastes no time in his attempt to placate Heron Kim; I’m sent to H Block that very evening like a welcome basket filled with muffin-flavoured NourishPodz. My whole body is ablaze, taut with anxious energy. I’d stopped feeling anything after the first half-dozen beds, but this is different. This is Heron Kim—the most dangerous man in here, the biggest threat to Tarrant.

And I need to seduce him. Need to bring him to heel. Make him obey. Like it was even possible for me to do that.

Five sets of eyes turn to me as I appear in the doorway of the H Block common room. In place of the hungry, horny grins that usually greet my appearance, they look … amused. I even catch an eye roll.

“I, um …”

“Kim, peace offering’s here,” an inmate calls, not moving away from his PKT.

“Send him in.” The voice comes from inside an open cell door.

“You heard the man. In you go.” A chin gestures to the room behind him. A dry chorus of chuckles erupt as I pass them to the room.

Heron Kim sits on his cot, cross-legged with his jumpsuit rolled down to his waist, exposing the tattoo in all its glory. It’s … beautiful. He is beautiful. I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. He’s magnetic. Like a predator I dare not turn my back on.

“Should I, uh, shut the door?” I ask, blinking to regain my composure.

“Why?”

Heat rushes to my face. One of those types, then. I take a deep breath and start unzipping my own suit. Dutifully, with no pretence of seduction. He knows why I’m here.

“What are you doing?”

Maybe he doesn’t.

“I, uh …” Shit, stuttering again. I cough. “Didn’t you hear? Peace … offering?”

“Why doesn’t O’Connor come himself?”

“People tend to prefer me.”

Okay, that might have been seductive.

“Yes. I can see why.”

He’s silent for a moment, watching me as intently as I had observed him. His tongue fiddles with the bar through his lip, twirling it clockwise. I stand there awkwardly until he gestures I take a seat, which I do on the floor opposite him. The wall is cold against my back.

“I thought I told you to keep your head down,” he says.

My pulse spikes. It’s him—the man from the Plunge. Heat fills my veins. The voice I’d heard through the wall seemed so kind, so gentle; Heron Kim is anything but. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.

“I’m here for Tarrant,” I say. “He protects me, and I help him. Tarrant doesn’t like to hurt people.”

“Doesn’t he?” Kim leans forward, muscles rippling across his chest. “Let me tell you something—Eden Walsh, was it? There are two types of people in this prison: those who hurt the Authority and those who hurt each other. Ergo, you’re either with the Authority or against it. You sure you know which side you’re on?”

Indignation bubbles inside me. How dare he? Everyone left on Earth is against the Authority. You don’t grow up dirty and powerless in the slums like Tarrant and me without seeking a little rebellion against those who have it better. How could Kim think we’re with them?

“Tarrant’s a drug runner,” I hiss. “Everything he does is in defiance of Authority law.”

“And where do you think he gets the synths needed to make his phets so addictive? Steals them? Hardly. The Authority lets them circulate. Lets them get into the hands of runners so the vulnerable fall prey to the temporary solace they offer. Then the Authority punishes us. And you know why? To keep us in the dirt. Their cities are full. Their off-world colonies—full. They need reason to keep the masses out. To control the quality of human on their new world. So they make us criminals. Make us undeserving. And that is how the Authority wins. That is how people like Tarrant O’Connor let them.”

I sit quietly with my thoughts. Anger at his accusations spreads through my body quickly followed by … shame? Shame, because I know he’s right? Shame, because of how easily I’ve been led?

No. I know Tarrant. I love Tarrant. This is Kim trying to weaken us.

“I have no interest in dethroning O’Connor,” he says, voice softening. “There are bigger targets on my radar. I’m not a threat to you. So don’t become one to me.”

I keep my gaze down, fixed on my hands. I can’t look at him right now. I’m too worried I’ll betray the doubt currently boring through my conviction like a drill. “Tarrant won’t give up. He’ll keep sending me here until you fuck me—until you join his pack.”

A genuine smile blooms on Kim’s lips. “I look forward to it.”

I ’ve been to H Block six times now and all we do is talk. And flirt. There’s been plenty of that. None of the other recruits ever bother. It’s all ‘pants down, knees up’ with that lot. As cold and impersonal as a transfer of credits.

But it’s not like that with Kim. His room has become the one place where I don’t have to worry about being touched. Where I can just … sit. Maybe that just means he isn’t interested. I know not every man in here is. Not really. Doesn’t stop them from pawing at me in lust and loneliness.

“Who did that to you?” Kim asks as I enter his cell, a purple bruise encircling my neck.

“It’s nothing,” I mumble, taking my usual seat on the floor across the room. “Workplace hazard.”

Kim frowns. “No one should work under those conditions.”

No, they shouldn’t. I want to agree, but instead I say nothing. I raise my hand to gingerly rub my neck, sliding inside the open collar of my jumpsuit. Kim’s gaze is on me, eyes tracing the movement of my fingers. I feel the heat of it. A shiver whispers across my skin.

“How can you think O’Connor loves you when he subjects you to that ?” Kim mutters and drags his gaze away.

“ There are worse hazards,” I scoff, anger prickling up my spine. “Conveyor belts, for example.”

Fuck . My blood runs cold as the air freezes in my chest. I’ve gone too far. I’ve ruined the delicate peace we’d built here.

But who is he to judge Tarrant? To judge our relationship? He condemns our arrangement but does nothing to free me from it.

But neither does he assault you.

I brace myself for violent denial, but Kim just gives a little snort and lets a smirk play on his lips. There’s no declaration of innocence or accusations of misinterpretation. He just … stares at me. Waiting for me to react.

I take the bait. “Well? Why’d you do it?”

He twirls his piercing. “What have you heard about Nikolai Reid?”

Nothing. I’ve never heard that name before. No—wait. Reid. Reid’s old cell.

“I … sleep in his old room,” I say at last.

Kim’s face darkens. “Seems fitting,” he mumbles to himself. “Nikolai was a previous inmate. A beautiful, beautiful boy. Much like yourself, truth be told. O’Connor must have a type. Blond, blue-eyed, young .”

I don’t like where this is going.

“He was dedicated to O’Connor. Followed him everywhere. Did everything he was told. Even fucked an inmate or two. Sound familiar?”

My throat tightens. I try to swallow, but there’s nothing there; my mouth is just too dry.

“About six weeks before you joined us, O’Connor needed someone to deliver new synth material to the outside. His previous mule got busted and wound up in the Plunge. So O’Connor asked Nikolai. He really needed to get this product into the hands of his runners, but couldn’t risk the raw materials being discovered in the cavity search on the way to visitation. So he made sure to bury them deep.”

Bend over, grab your ankles and cough three times.

“ Too deep; Nikolai couldn’t retrieve them. Instead, they dissolved. Flooded his system with unrefined phets. And he died.”

“S-stop,” I choke, defiant tears in my eyes.

“They presented it as an accidental overdose,” Kim continues. “Bad batch, O’Connor insisted, naming Kon as the one responsible for bringing it in. As top dog, I punished him and got myself sent to the Plunge in result. When I was in there, I heard the truth of it. About the little mutiny O’Connor was planning and his arrangement with the guards.”

I can’t listen to this. I stand and make to leave, but Kim grabs my wrist as I rush past. It’s the first time he’s ever touched me and my skin burns hot as he pulls me close, my cheek pressing against the heron on his chest. He massages the nape of my neck. I don’t pull away.

“Don’t move drugs for him,” Kim whispers, his voice earnest. “Sooner or later, he will ask. Say no. Please. Just … say no.”

I stay encircled in Kim’s embrace. It’s warm. Intimate. Safe . My skin tingles where the pads of his fingertips press into my skin, heat spreading down my spine. I want to stay here forever. Just … breathing him in. He smells like sweat and gear grease, but I don’t care. It’s intoxicating.

I push back from his chest to look at his face. His embrace slackens but doesn’t fall away. He’s looking at me so intensely I might vaporise, his dark eyes endlessly deep.

“Why do you …” I moisten my dry throat. “Why do you care what happens to a drug runner’s whore?”

Kim smooths his thumb across my cheek, across my lip. For a second, I think he might kiss me. Fuck, I wish he would.

“Because I can’t bear any more beauty being stolen from this world.”

I grip his face and drag him down, our mouths crushing together. A moan rumbles in his throat as tongues dive deep. I’m breathless as my back hits the wall, light-headed and giddy. Kim’s lips are on my neck, sucking and licking. Oh fuck, my neck . When was the last time someone kissed my neck ?

When was the last time someone kissed me ?

I grind against him. God, I want him. I actually fucking want him. Arousal tightens my balls, stiffens my cock, and I slip my hands inside his open jumpsuit to trace the lines of his tattoo with my fingertips, with my tongue. I’m on my knees now and my face is in his crotch. I bury myself in it, breathing deep, nuzzling against the rock-hard heat of him.

He pulls away. Repels like a magnet. And I’m left kneeling there, panting like a dog, as he stares at me from across the room. Kim pushes his hair back off his face as he starts to pace, as if walking back and forth will take the sting out of his arousal. It’s the first time I’ve seen him rattled, uncomposed.

And I did this to him.

“I won’t fuck another man’s boy,” he says, shaking his head. “Even if that other man is O’Connor.” He sighs deeply and sits down on the edge of his cot, head falling into his hands. “Go, Eden. Go back to your top dog.”

“But Tarrant wants?—”

“I don’t care what Tarrant fucking O’Connor wants! Go, Eden. Go— leave !”

My feet don’t move for a moment. I’m stuck here—I’m stuck on him . But I can’t disobey. Not Tarrant. Not Kim. Not anybody.

So I run.

I don’t look Tarrant in the eye, even when he’s fucking me. On my back, I stare at the ceiling as he thrusts between my thighs. I can’t stop thinking about Nikolai Reid. About Tarrant’s role in his death.

About Heron Kim.

“I need you to take a break from seeing Kim tomorrow,” Tarrant says after he’s regained his breath. He’s finished and rolled off me, now lying propped up on an elbow, fingers combing through my hair. “There’s something else I need you to do.”

My head snaps towards him, a fist in my gut.

Sooner or later he will ask.

“I’ve got a meeting with my defence counsel,” he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his words. “Looks like the little stunt you pulled to get yourself in here has bought me some negotiation power. You took the fall for me, baby. My charges will be dropped. I’ll try and cut us a deal.”

“You’d … get us out of here?” A warm bloom of hope spills from deep in my belly.

“Of course,” Tarrant whispers, breath hot on my cheek. “You’re my boy. My beautiful, useful boy. Business is booming thanks to you. When we get out, we’ll have enough credits to leave the slums. To start over somewhere fresh, just like we always wanted.”

Do I still want that? A life with Tarrant? I kiss him to find out. The spark is there, distant and dim. I indulge it. Languid tongues and roaming hands breathe fire into a slow, sensual exchange I’d not felt with Tarrant in a very long time. Arousal prickles my cock, stoking it to life. I run my fingers through his hair, relishing the long, silky feel of it … but Tarrant’s hair is short, prickly, and I open my eyes, disorientated.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask abruptly, trying to hide the flush colouring my cheeks.

“A guard owes me a favour,” Tarrant says simply. “I need you to go collect it.”

“And then we can be free?” My voice cracks.

Tarrant smiles. “And then we can be free.”

I ’m summoned to an interview room shortly after Tarrant goes to meet his defence counsel to negotiate our release. I try to keep my nerves in check but it’s a losing battle. This could be the last time I do this. Anticipation of the end flutters so viscerally over my body it almost gets me hard.

Almost .

The guard swipes us into a small room in the administration building, similar to the one I was in during processing. There’s nothing in here but a steel table with a single chair. I’ve fucked in worse places.

“I’ll disable the camera,” he says, punching a code into the holoscreen projected from his device. “You’ll have five minutes.”

“I’m sure it won’t take that long,” I mutter, slipping out of my shoes. He’s one of the older guards here. I’ve seen him around during work orders, but we’ve never interacted before. Ironic, that I’m about to know him more intimately than others I have spoken to.

He steps towards me, not waiting for me to finish undressing. My muscles tense as I steel myself in preparation to be thrown to the floor. He places his hands on my shoulders, his grip ghosting down my arms until he reaches my wrists. Then he grabs me hard and pushes something into my palm—a plastic sleeve filled with translucent squares of tape.

Phets. Raw, synthetic, phets.

My blood runs cold. A mule. Tarrant’s turning me into a fucking mule. And the Authority’s his supplier.

Just like Heron said.

“Well?” the guard barks. “Don’t let anyone see you with that. Put it away before the camera’s back on.”

I stuff the pouch into my pocket, heart still hammering. “Right. Thanks, I guess,” I mutter and push my feet back into my shoes, head down to hide the tears stinging my eyes. I turn towards the door; it’s still locked.

“Where you going?” the guard asks gruffly. “I’ve done my bit. Time to do yours.”

I hear the groan of a zipper and turn back to see the man’s semi-erect cock flopped through the opening of his uniform. He gestures to his crotch, an incredulous look on his face.

Jaw clenched, I drop to my knees.

“ W here’s Heron Kim?”

I don’t know how I end up in H Block, but I’m standing in the doorway of the common room watching the inmates play some sort of tattered card game at the table.

“Showers,” a man with a closely shaven head says—Yannek, I think his name is? He discards a card from his hand onto the table. “Last stall on the left.”

I rush off without another word, towards the sound of running water echoing through the corridor from the bathrooms. It’s eerily quiet; the mid-afternoon rec time is commonly used for rest and the shower block is deserted save for one occupied stall.

There are no doors on the showers, just partitions separating each faucet, so I see Heron before he sees me. His eyes are closed with his head tilted towards the ceiling, water sluicing his long hair down his back like a black curtain. He soaps his body, rubbing wide, languid circles over his tattoo, which I now see is a whole flock of birds stretching across his flank, down past his hip and onto the top of his thigh.

My tongue flicks out to moisten my lips.

“Eden,” he startles, and a sob bursts from my mouth at the note of concern in his voice. I walk right into the shower, fully clothed, and fold myself into his wet chest. Maybe I’d been expecting rejection, but when he wraps his arms around me, I start crying in earnest. Dissolving, like the wad of phets in Reid’s body.

“You’re right,” I say, water dripping off my nose and eyelashes. “We do work for the Authority. I’m the fucking scum of the earth.” I pull the bag of drugs out of my pocket and raise it to show Heron. He snatches it from me, but not in anger. Not at me, anyway. He tears open the plastic sleeve and shakes the squares out onto the floor. They fizzle in the water pooling at our feet.

He stomps them down the drain.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Heron,” I sob. “I don’t want to?—”

He kisses me. My thoughts fall away after that. My thoughts of Tarrant, the Authority, Kon’s mangled leg. None of it matters. Not while Heron Kim is kissing me like that.

He guides me back against the wall. Not with a slam, but with tender ease. He presses his body against mine, one arm by my head, the other at my hip. Our lips never part. I slide my hands up his back, the muscles slick with soap. I’m still clothed and that desperately needs to change. I want to feel his heat against me. His wet skin.

His hard cock.

Heron starts tugging the jumpsuit off my shoulders. I help shake the stubborn, wet fabric aside, my hands otherwise too distracted to help. I can’t stop touching him. He’s like a tangle of raw wires—hard and knotted and sending electricity crackling through my fingertips.

His hand cups my hip, thumb caressing the rise of the bone. “May I?”

“Yes,” I breathe. I don’t even know what he’s asking, but the answer is most definitely yes—fucking yes.

Heron’s long fingers curl around my cock. His hands are slick with soap and I whimper as he strokes me, so long and slow that my legs turn weak. He breaks our kiss and looks down, forehead resting against mine, as he watches me grow to full length.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he breathes into my hair. “This only happens if you want it. Not because someone told you that you have to.”

“I want it,” I moan but grip his wrist to make him stop. Fuck, if he keeps pumping me like that, I’m going to come all over his hands right here and now. “I want it,” I repeat, stronger now I’ve recovered my breath. “I want you . I … don’t want to be with Tarrant anymore. I don’t want to serve the Authority.”

Heron releases a moan from deep in his throat, a rumble that’s somehow both content and full of yearning all at once. He tilts my chin up towards him and takes my lips in a probing, passionate kiss. It was so intoxicatingly intimate that time blurs; the next thing I know, my cheek is pressed into the wet tiles as Heron flips me around. I gasp as his hard body moulds against mine, his breath hot in my ear.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he breathes.

“God, yes,” I gasp. “Fuck me so I forget.”

Heron licks up my jaw, over the shell of my ear and I moan, senses aflame. The steam from the shower makes me giddy and I bend my head back to rest on his collarbone, face turned to the pounding water. Strong arms envelop me. His hands are everywhere at once, groping my chest, stroking my cock, stretching my hole. I arch into him, bent like a bow as I repel off the wall he’s so desperate to grind me against. My hand grabs a fistful of his silky long hair and I tug it so hard, I steel myself for reprimand. It doesn’t come. Instead, Heron guides my hand away, kissing down my soapy neck as he pins it to the wall above my head. The other one comes to join it and now both my wrists are locked between one of his massive hands.

“Do you like it like this?” Heron coos, languidly soaping my crack with his other hand. “Or would you prefer I take you to bed?”

“Just take me now,” I moan. My pelvis tilts back, searching for his cock. I need him to fill me. When his fingers fall away, I whimper at the neglect, but welcome the firm grip he now holds on my hip.

Heron enters me in a single, smooth thrust—so deep I feel the prickle of his pubes against the small of my back. God, he’s huge. When he starts to move, I see white. Stars of pleasure and pain burst behind my eyes. There’s nothing sloppy or lustful in his thrusts; every roll of his hips is deliberate—a conscious, calculated movement to sensually stimulate each and every nerve.

“Oh, Heron …” My forehead slips down the wall where I’d tried to brace myself as my legs turn to gel. I’m weak all over, except for my cock, which is rock-hard and weeping. Thank God my arms are pinned because if I touch it, I’ll explode.

If he touches it, I’ll die.

“Come for me, Eden,” Heron growls. “Let it all out.”

His hand, which had been guiding my hips through each of his long thrusts, curls around my dick. A thumb rolling over the leaking head is all it takes to have me squirting up the shower wall. Heron holds me so I don’t collapse, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own orgasm builds. Both of his arms are curled around my belly, holding me off the ground as I ride his cock to oblivion. Now free, my hands clutch desperately at his as I pull him deeper, moaning as he jerks inside me. I clench down and he empties his balls with a primal groan that sends goosepimples shivering across my skin.

Heron lowers us both to the floor, panting wildly. He reaches up to cut off the shower, the steamy water now feeling cool against the heat from our bodies. I lay sprawled across his thighs, head resting back against his shoulder as I chase my own breath. His pulse pounds so violently I can feel it in my ears through the muscles of his neck.

“Are you cold?” he asks, squeezing his arms tight around me.

“No,” I say sleepily, then turn my head towards the sodden pile of clothes. “I’m not looking forward to putting that back on, though.”

Heron chuckles and presses a kiss to my temple. “Come on. I’ll find you something dry to wear.”

M y hair’s still damp when I trudge back to D Block, wrapped in Heron Kim’s spare jumpsuit. It’s far too big for me and with its rolled sleeves and ankles, it’s obvious I’m not wearing my own clothes. I don’t regret what I did—far from it—but my brain is so busy concocting lies and excuses to tell Tarrant that I walk straight into a guard leaving our common room.

It’s Fargus, listening to the crackling comm coming through her device.

“Hurry up, O’Connor,” she barks over her shoulder, deaf to my apologies. “Transport won’t wait for you.”

She steps around me to continue her call out in the corridor. As soon as I turn the door to my cell, Tarrant grabs my wrist and slams me into the wall. I expect to feel his lips on me; instead a fist crashes into the steel next to my ear and I shudder.

“Where the fuck is it, Eden?” he growls, grabbing my jaw.

“Wha—” His grip is so tight I can barely speak.

“The phets , Eden. You were supposed to bring them straight back to Kon and you didn’t. Where are they?”

“I dropped them,” I snap. “Guess I was surprised to find you working for the Authority. What the fuck, Tarrant?”

“I’m not working for the Authority, you pathetic little shit. They work for me. I fucking own this place, remember?”

“Do you? Looks to me like they own you .”

Tarrant spears a knee into my gut, knocking the wind from my lungs. I stay upright thanks to his hold on my jaw, but I really want to curl up in a ball against the pain and fear. Tarrant’s eyes are menacing as he leans in close. Again, I think he might kiss me; he doesn’t.

“Count yourself lucky I’m getting out today,” he snarls. “Because if I’d bothered to cut a deal for you too, you’d be dead in a ditch the moment we hit the slums.”

The threat dampens any betrayal I might have felt at Tarrant reneging on his promise to get me out. Relief floods through me instead—until he jerks my head towards Kon. “Though, I don’t think you’ll fare much better in here, either.”

Kon cracks his knuckles and I thrash against Tarrant’s grip.

“O’Connor,” Fargus says from the doorway, accompanied by a male guard. “Time’s up. Get going.”

Tarrant releases me with an affable smile at Fargus and bends to pick up his basket of belongings. “Been a pleasure, Fargus,” he says. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“Wouldn’t count on it, O’Connor,” she mutters.

He claps Kon on the shoulder as he passes, then leaves with the male guard without so much as a second glance in my direction. I’m glad for that. If he looked at me one more time with those dark eyes, I’m sure I’d puke. But instead, it’s Kon glaring at me with the same threatening intensity, and I can’t bear the thought of what will happen once Fargus leaves us alone.

I open my mouth to blurt out some pathetic excuse for me to be anywhere else but Fargus beats me to it.

“Meyer,” she says, turning to Kon. “Stretch break is over. Back to your work order.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grumbles reluctantly, not breaking our eye contact until he’s completely out of sight.

I release the breath I’d been holding, and a shudder racks my body. I’m due at the same work order. Any second now, Fargus will be telling me to move my arse and, come this afternoon, I’ll be threaded through the gears just like Kon’s leg. Maybe they’ll just kill me.

Maybe that would be best.

“Pack your things, Walsh,” Fargus commands. She types distractedly into her holoscreen projection.

“S-sorry?” I stammer, confused. Tarrant said the deal was just for him. Surely I’m not going to be?—

“I’m moving you to another block for safety; this is the best I can do for now.” She keeps typing away, then stops to look at me. “Believe it or not, we don’t actually like it when inmates are murdered in here.” Her face softens into a wry smile. “Too much paperwork.”

I carry my world in a plastic basket. Back across the yard, past the scrutinising stares of the inmates, and through the stark white buildings that all look frustratingly the same. Anxiety takes hold of my chest just as it had the day I was admitted, but this time everything’s so much worse. There’s no spark of resolve or simmering anticipation to see Tarrant. There’s just … nothing. Nothing but a target on my head. An actual fucking target that I put there myself. So much for keeping my head down.

I should have known making enemies would be more dangerous than being the new boy; I have no doubt Kon’s already spread word of my betrayal throughout Tarrant’s crew and the next time I show my face to them, it’ll be smashed into the concrete. The Authority’s going to need to do more than change where I sleep.

Fargus swipes her device at the entrance of my new cell block and the inmates in the common room all turn to face our arrival.

“New cellmate,” she says, gesturing me inside. “Kim, I trust you’ll make him feel welcome.”

Heron looks up from his PKT, smiling from ear to ear in a way I’ve never seen before. Warmth fills my chest, burning away the claws of anxiety’s grip. I almost drop my basket and run to him.

“Of course,” he says, still grinning. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

Heron Kim stands and leads me through the open door of his room.