Chapter Ten

Angelo sat on the bed in his dimly lit cell in solitary, nursing his injuries and brooding. His tore knuckles ached, and he could feel every bruise on his body throbbing nastily. The brawl had been brutal, but it was Sinclair’s smug face as Angelo was dragged away that haunted him. He cursed the Aryans under his breath, their presence feeling like a poisonous cloud hanging over the prison.

Sinclair hadn’t been taken to solitary. Sinclair was out there now, still causing trouble. Maybe the brawl had been his fault, too. It would be just like him to goad his followers into picking fights with the Latinos.

There was very little to do in solitary except pick over his own thoughts. They drifted, naturally, to Milo. He remembered the guard’s hand striking Milo’s fragile face. A flicker of anger flashed through him. How fucking dare that asshole hit Milo when he wasn’t doing anything?

The kid had tried to argue in Angelo’s favor. Angelo would remember that.

He wondered if Milo had been thrown into solitary confinement as well. Unlikely. He had an unblemished record, after all. But the image of Milo alone in their cell, unprotected, did little to reassure him.

He shook himself, pushing the image away.

He needed to stay focused, keep his eyes on the prize—getting out of prison. And if he could take down Sinclair on the way out? All the better.

“I’ll fuck you up,” he muttered to himself. “Should never have messed with us.” And Milo. For some reason, Torres felt a strong urge to protect Milo from Sinclair, too.

The memory of that morning’s shower flashed through Torres’s mind. He had pushed Milo against the cold, wet tiles, had put his fingers right…yeah. Right on his hole. The way Milo’s body tensed and then relaxed under his touch had been intoxicating. Torres had planned to do more later that night, but now that wasn’t going to happen.

He grunted, knocking his head back against the wall, his annoyance at missing the opportunity mixed with a growing arousal as he thought about what he was going to do to Milo when he got out. Touch him again, watch him squirm. He liked it, the little puta. He’d have liked Angelo’s fingers in him today, in the shower, no matter who was watching.

And when Torres got back to the cell he was going to take what Milo was so obviously offering.

Gods, thinking about it was getting him hard. He rubbed a hand over his erection through the rough fabric of his jumpsuit. Well, why not? If he was on camera, who fucking cared? Let the sickos watch.

He popped the buttons on his jumpsuit and slipped a hand inside, wrapping it around his thickening cock. He began to stroke himself, the coarse skin of his palm rubbing against the sensitive head as thoughts of the things he could do to Milo played behind his eyelids.

He imagined how it would feel to press Milo down onto his knees, forcing Milo’s pretty face into his lap. Push his cock between Milo’s lips and get him to suck. Feel his mouth hot and wet and willing. Because he was willing. That was the tantalizing part. Forcing him against his will would be no satisfaction at all. The idea disgusted him. But to force Milo to act on the desires he had not admitted to? Yes, that was a thrilling thought.

His grip tightened on his cock, his strokes gaining speed as he pictured Milo’s full lips wrapped around him, choking but begging for more.

“Fuck,” he groaned, feeling the familiar pressure building in his balls. He could almost taste Milo’s submission, smell his fear and arousal as he bent to Angelo’s will. It only took a few more furious strokes before Angelo found his release, coming hard and fast in his hand.

If only he could have come in Milo’s mouth.

The thought didn’t disgust him as it should have. No, quite the opposite. He was suffused with a strange sense of satisfaction, knowing he would soon have Milo right where he wanted him. Whatever happened with his sentence, with Sinclair, one thing was certain: for now, Milo was his. And when he got out of solitary confinement, he was going to make sure Milo knew that.

***

Milo huddled on the thin mattress of his bunk, the cold concrete walls of the cell closing in around him. Without Torres’s solid presence, the cramped space felt suffocating, oppressive. Jeering calls echoed down the cell block, mocking voices that promised pain and degradation.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. In his mind, he was back home, heading downstairs to the breakfast room where the staff would have breakfast waiting. Fresh squeezed orange juice, a fluffy omelet stuffed with gruyere and prosciutto, buttery croissants with homemade jam. His stomach growled thinking about it. What he wouldn’t give for a taste of that now, instead of the grey oatmeal and soggy toast they served in this godforsaken place.

Milo wrapped his arms around himself, fingers digging into his sides. It did nothing to stop the trembling that had started deep in his core. He’d never felt so alone. A broken sob escaped him. He needed Torres. Needed his powerful body and dangerous reputation to keep the wolves at bay. Without his protection, Milo was nothing but a piece of meat to be devoured. A helpless princess, just like Torres called him.

The sound of footsteps approaching his cell jerked him upright. His heart raced as a familiar figure paused outside the bars—Sinclair. The man who had offered him protection before. The racist.

Sinclair grinned at him, seemingly friendly, but his cold blue eyes glinting with malice. “Hey now,” Sinclair drawled. “All alone? Where’s your attack dog?”

Milo’s mouth went dry, his palms slick with sweat. He swallowed hard, pressing his back against the wall. “W-what do you want?”

Sinclair chuckled. The sound was harmless, which only made it more sinister. “Just checking in on you. Making sure you’re not too lonely without your boyfriend.”

A shudder rippled through Milo. This was an obvious threat. Without Torres, Milo was easy prey for any of the predators prowling the cell block. His gaze darted to the open space behind Sinclair, praying a guard would walk by.

“Torres isn’t…we’re not…” Milo stammered, his face flushing.

Sinclair’s grin widened. “Oh, sure. Holding out for white dick, are you? Well, we’ve got plenty of that if you want it. Or even you don’t,” he said in a tone that sounded pleasant but was anything but.

Milo flinched as if slapped, his eyes stinging with humiliated tears. He wrapped his arms around himself, shrinking back into the corner of his bunk. “Please, just leave me alone,” he protested.

“For now,” Sinclair said breezily. “But sooner or later you and I are going to have a chat about what’s right and proper, and your place in this world.”

He reached through the bars, his hand curling in a beckoning gesture. Milo recoiled, a whimper rising in his throat.

“I’ll be watching you,” Sinclair finished with a smile. He withdrew his hand and sauntered off, his voice echoing in Milo’s ears.

Milo drew his knees to his chest, burying his face in his folded arms as he shook. Sinclair was right. Without Torres’s protection, it was only a matter of time before he was cornered, beaten, and worse. Milo squeezed his eyes shut against the horrific images flooding his mind. Please, he prayed silently, desperately. Torres, please come back soon. He didn’t know how much longer he could survive on his own.

A shudder rippled through him at the thought of the showers, of those cruel eyes raking over his naked body. He’d managed to avoid them so far, but he knew he couldn’t put it off forever. Sooner or later, the guards would force him out of the relative safety of his cell, and then…

Milo flinched as a harsh voice barked his name. He looked up to see a scowling guard unlocking the cell door, jerking his head towards the corridor. “Yard time, Mueller. Move it.”

Milo’s heart lurched into his throat. “Please, I don’t…I can’t…” he stammered, but the guard just sneered.

“You can and you will, or it’s the hole for you. On your feet, now!”

Milo stumbled out into the yard on shaking legs, squinting against the harsh sunlight. The other inmates eyed him like a pack of starving dogs spotting a rabbit, their faces splitting into sharp grins. Milo shrank back against the wall, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Torres’s putita.”

Milo’s head snapped up at the voice, his eyes widening as he saw who had spoken. It was one of the Latinos he’d seen Torres talking to. The man was tall and powerfully built, with rich caramel skin and a shock of thick, dark curls framing a strikingly handsome face. His full lips were curled in a smirk, but there was a warmth to his eyes that eased a fraction of the fear squeezing Milo’s chest.

“W-what do you want?” Milo stammered, hating the tremor in his voice.

The man chuckled, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside him. “Relax. I’m not here to start shit. Just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re doing okay without your man around.”

Milo blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected kindness. If it really was kindness and not a trap. “Oh. Um.” he mumbled, ducking his head. He darted a glance up at the guy through his lashes. “It’s…Rafael, right?”

The guy nodded. “And your name isn’t putita.”

“Milo,” said Milo. He eyed Rafael warily, not sure what to make of the man. After the way Sinclair had threatened him, he was jumpy, suspicious of anyone who approached him. But Rafael’s dark eyes were warm, his smile genuine.

“Torres would want me to look out for you,” Rafael said, his voice a smooth, rich baritone. “Until he gets back from the hole. Latinos take care of our own.”

Milo blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not Latino.”

“No, but you and Torres are like this,” Rafael said, holding up his hand with two fingers crossed.

Milo shivered at the implication. “It’s not like…I mean, Torres and I aren’t…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain his relationship with his cellmate. What were they, really?

Rafael chuckled, a knowing glint in his eye. “Hey, it’s none of my business. I’m just looking out for my friends and their friends.”

Milo ducked his head, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, forcing himself to meet Rafael’s gaze. “I…I appreciate it. Truly.”

Rafael clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture friendly rather than threatening. “Don’t mention it. Just stick close to the Latinos, and you’ll be alright.”

Milo nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He still felt horribly exposed without Torres’s solid presence at his side, but knowing he had the protection of the Latino inmates made it a little easier to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, he would survive this nightmare after all.