Chapter Sixteen

Angelo couldn’t keep his eyes off Milo, tracking his every movement as they crossed the prison yard. The way Milo’s slender hips swayed, the curve of his ass in those ill-fitting prison pants…it was enough to drive Angelo crazy with desire.

He sidled up behind Milo in the shower, pressing close as he reached for the soap. His hand brushed Milo’s hip, lingering just a moment too long. Milo shivered, glancing back at him with wide, nervous eyes.

“Keep your eyes forward, princesa,” Angelo murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Milo’s ear.

Milo obeyed instantly, his body trembling under Angelo’s touch as Angelo slowly ran the soap over Milo’s chest and stomach. Angelo’s cock hardened, pressing against the cleft of Milo’s ass. He wanted nothing more than to bend Milo over right here, to fuck him hard and rough until he screamed.

But he couldn’t. Not here, not now. Angelo gritted his teeth, forcing himself to pull away.

In the yard, he couldn’t stop himself from touching Milo every chance he got. A hand on the small of his back as they walked, fingers brushing Milo’s wrist, a possessive grip on Milo’s nape. He knew the other inmates noticed, could practically feel their knowing smirks boring into his back.

But Angelo didn’t care. Let them gossip. All he cared about was Milo, and the way Milo melted so sweetly under his hands. The way Milo looked at him, equal parts terrified and worshipful. Like Angelo was his entire world.

Mine, Angelo thought fiercely as he watched Milo across the yard. All mine. And tonight, he would prove it, would stake his claim on every inch of Milo’s tender flesh until no one could doubt who Milo belonged to.

The truth was, he couldn’t get enough of Milo. He wanted him all the time, from the moment he woke up to the instant they were locked in their cell at night.

Every night after lights out, Angelo fucked Milo in their cell. He’d push him up against the wall, or bend him over the sink, or throw him onto the bottom bunk. It didn’t matter where, as long as he could feel Milo’s tight heat wrapped around his cock.

At first, Milo would whimper and beg for mercy, but Angelo knew he secretly loved it. He could hear it in the way he’d moan and writhe beneath him, in the way Milo’s hands clutched at him needily.

As the days turned into weeks, Angelo started marking Milo as his property. He’d leave bite marks on his neck, hickeys on his chest, bruises on his hips. He wanted everyone in the prison to know that Milo belonged to him.

Milo tried to hide the marks in the showers, but it was no use. The other inmates knew exactly what they meant. Angelo reveled in it. Those marks were his, and Milo deserved them.

He couldn’t focus on anything except the way Milo’s lips looked when he was talking, or the way his ass moved when he walked. He found himself staring at Milo during meals, during workouts, during the long hours in their cell. It was like he was under a spell, and the only thing that could break it was the feel of Milo’s mouth on his cock or his cock buried in Milo’s ass.

Angelo had always prided himself on his self-control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check. But with Milo, it was different. He felt like he was losing his mind, like he was drowning in a sea of lust and compulsion. He couldn’t think about anything except finding private places to push Milo to his knees and fuck his mouth.

It was unnerving, this loss of control. Angelo had never felt this way before, had never been so consumed by his own desires. He found himself snapping at the other inmates, at the guards, at anyone who got in his way. He was short-tempered, irritable, and he knew it was because he was so focused on Milo.

He had stopped thinking about the future, about his release date or his plans for when he got out. All that mattered was the now, and the pleasure he got from Milo’s body.

But at the same time, it unnerved him. He had never felt this way before, had never been so consumed by his own desires. He didn’t know what it meant, or where it was leading. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull himself away from Milo.

He was losing himself, losing control. And he didn’t know if he would ever be able to find his way back.

***

It was early when Angelo awoke. The cell was still shrouded in darkness, the only sound the steady breathing of the man beside him. Milo lay on his side, curled into a loose fetal position, his ash-blond hair tousled against the thin pillow.

Angelo’s gaze lingered on the soft slope of Milo’s shoulder, the gentle curve of his back leading down to the swell of his ass. The sight of him, so peaceful and unguarded, made something in Angelo’s chest tighten with an almost painful intensity.

He tugged the covers down slowly, revealing Milo’s pert, pale ass to the dim light of dawn. With a roughened hand, Angelo traced the contours of Milo’s body, lingering on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Milo stirred at the touch, a sleepy murmur escaping his lips as he unconsciously spread his legs, granting Angelo greater access. Angelo’s cock twitched at the sight, his hunger for Milo growing to an almost unbearable ache.

He positioned himself between Milo’s legs, his fingers exploring the cleft of Milo’s ass before slipping lower to where Milo was still slick with lube. Angelo gritted his teeth, fighting back the urge to drive into him with one brutal thrust. Instead, he pressed the head of his cock against Milo’s entrance, entering him with a slow, deliberate push that had Milo gasping awake.

Milo’s eyes flew open, pupils blown wide with surprise. Angelo paused, giving Milo a moment to adjust, to feel the fullness of his cock stretching him open.

“Shh, princesa,” Angelo murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet cell. He brushed a lock of hair from Milo’s forehead, his touch unexpectedly gentle. “You should be used to this by now.”

Milo’s response was a soft whimper, his body relaxing around Angelo’s cock. Angelo began to move, his hips rolling in a smooth, languid rhythm. He watched Milo’s face, the way his lips parted with each thrust, the way his eyes screwed up in ecstasy.

Angelo’s thrusts grew deeper, more insistent, but his hands remained gentle, caressing Milo’s hips, his stomach, his chest. He could feel Milo’s arousal building, could hear it in the breathy moans that escaped those soft, girlish lips.

“You want to come?” Angelo asked softly.

“Please,” Milo begged, breathless.

Magnanimously, Angelo reached down touch Milo’s cock. He felt Milo clench in surprise and pleasure, and then Milo rocked back, skewering himself on Angelo’s cock like he was desperate for it.

Ah. He was finally fully awake then.

Angelo shifted the angle of his hips, stroking Milo in time with his thrusts. Milo’s body tensed, his brows furrowing in anticipation before he cried out, his release spilling over Angelo’s fingers. It was enough to push Angelo over the edge. He came with a low growl, his cock pulsing as he filled Milo with come.

For a long moment, Angelo remained buried inside him, listening to the fast tattoo of his heart. Or was it Milo’s? He couldn’t tell. Finally, he withdrew slowly, watching as a shudder ran through Milo’s body at the loss of contact.

He lay back on the bed, pulling Milo against him. Milo went willingly, fitting himself against Angelo’s larger frame with a contented sigh. Angelo found himself running his fingers through Milo’s hair, a small, affectionate gesture that caught him off guard.

Milo turned his face into Angelo’s touch, a sweet, genuine smile curving his lips. The sight of it made Angelo’s heart stutter, a confusing wave of warmth spreading through his chest.

“You’re a good boy,” Angelo murmured, his voice betraying a tenderness he hadn’t intended to reveal.

Milo smiled. “For you, sir,” he said softly.

Angelo’s response was a gruff nod, his throat suddenly too tight for words. He tightened his arms around Milo, holding him close as the prison began to stir around them.

He felt untethered, like the world didn’t quite make sense anymore. This feeling stayed in him all day, making it hard to concentrate on anything. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore, all of it feeling unreal and distant.

He tried to focus on working out in the yard. It had always worked for him in the past. But now the exertion of his body only reminded him of other exertions, in the dark, with Milo.

Still, he tried. He grunted as he pushed the weight bar up, his muscles straining with the effort. Sweat beaded on his brow, trailing down the curves of his tattooed biceps in rivulets. Beside him, Rafael was doing pull-ups, his movements fluid and controlled.

“Ten more, cabrón,” Rafael called out.

Angelo shot him a sidelong glance but didn’t break his rhythm. He finished his set, carefully racking the weights before sitting up to grab his towel. As he wiped the sweat from his face, he caught sight of a group of younger Latinos crowding around a new guy. Angelo’s gaze flicked over them dismissively before settling back on Rafael.

“What are those pendejos up to?” he asked, nodding towards the cluster.

Rafael followed his line of sight and shrugged one broad shoulder. “Just showing off for the new fish. Don’t worry, they know better than to rough him up.”

Angelo made a noncommittal noise of agreement, but his eyes kept straying across the yard, searching for a telltale shock of pale blond hair. When he couldn’t find it, his jaw tightened.

“Looking for Milito?” Rafael’s question was laced with amusement. Angelo shot him a quelling glare, but Rafael only grinned, unperturbed. “Your boy’s in medical,” he said blithely. “Don’t worry, I got Julio watching his back.”

“He’s not my boy,” Angelo said gruffly.

Rafael arched one dark brow skeptically but didn’t argue the point. “If you say so, hermano.”

They lapsed into silence, Rafael beginning another set of pull-ups while Angelo watched him through narrowed eyes. His mind should have been on their upcoming plans, the tensions simmering between their faction and the Aryans, the rumors of Sinclair’s impending power play. But instead, all he could focus on was the way Milo’s hair curled at the nape of his neck, the soft noises he made when Angelo slid into him, the feeling of Milo’s slender body cradled against his own…

Angelo shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge the unwanted thoughts. He was losing his grip, getting tangled up in something he couldn’t control or explain.

This was how it happened. This was where he made his mistake.

It was after laundry shift. The place was deserted, the machines rattling away on a cleaning cycle. He’d gone back behind the big, industrial machines looking for something. Later, he couldn’t even remember why the fuck he’d been back there.

He should have been more alert, more vigilant. But his mind had been preoccupied, his focus fractured ever since that morning with Milo. The memory of Milo’s slender body pressed against his own, the way he’d trembled and clung to Angelo in the aftermath, kept replaying in Angelo’s mind in a distracting loop.

A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision was the only warning he got. Before he could react, a solid weight slammed into him from the side, driving the breath from his lungs as he was shoved violently against the wall.

“Well, well, if it isn’t King Dick himself.”

Sinclair’s sneering voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Angelo wheezed, his ribs aching from the impact as he struggled to suck in a breath. He glared at the wiry white man pinning him, at the cruel glint in those pale blue eyes.

“You got a death wish, cabron?” Angelo growled, straining against Sinclair’s grip.

Sinclair only laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “That’s funny. You’re the one who’s going to be leaving this world.”

Angelo felt the first tendril of unease snake through him as he took in their surroundings for the first time. They were in a blind spot, tucked behind the industrial machines with no security cameras in sight. The sound of machinery was deafening. No one would hear a thing. His pulse kicked up a notch as the realization sank in—if Sinclair killed him here, he would get away with it.

Suddenly hyperaware of how exposed he was, Angelo renewed his efforts to break free. But Sinclair was wiry and tenacious, his grip like iron as he slammed Angelo back against the wall with enough force to make his teeth rattle.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Sinclair hissed, his face mere inches from Angelo’s own. “Letting that pretty little bitch of yours cloud your head. Didn’t your homies warn you about going soft?”

Angelo felt a cold knot of dread form in his stomach. Was this how it ended? After everything he’d survived, was he really going to die here, in this grimy laundry, at the hands of this racist piece of shit?

Sinclair’s lips curled into a cruel sneer. “My boys already found your little pet. Bet they’re taking real good care of him right now. Splitting him open, making him scream…”

A red haze descended over Angelo’s vision. With a roar, he surged forward, slamming his head into Sinclair’s face with a sickening crunch. Sinclair staggered back, blood gushing from his shattered nose, but Angelo didn’t let up. He drove his fist into Sinclair’s gut once, twice, three times, putting all his strength and fury behind each blow.

Sinclair wheezed, doubling over, but managed to catch Angelo with a wild haymaker that sent him reeling. Angelo tasted blood, felt it trickling down his chin, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was Milo, the terror and pain he must be feeling, the desperate need to get to him before it was too late.

A low, guttural sound tore from Angelo’s throat as he threw himself at Sinclair with renewed fury. His fists flew in a relentless barrage, each blow landing with brutal precision. Sinclair fought back viciously, his wiry frame belying a hidden strength as he caught Angelo with a sharp jab to the kidney.

Angelo grunted in pain, his grip loosening for a split second. It was all Sinclair needed. With a swift, serpentine motion, he slithered out from under Angelo and flipped their positions, slamming Angelo’s head against the concrete with a sickening crack.

Stars exploded behind Angelo’s eyes, his vision swimming. Through the haze, he saw Sinclair’s hand disappear into his waistband, emerging a heartbeat later with a crude shank clutched in his fist.

“Time to die,” Sinclair hissed, his eyes glinting with malice as he raised the makeshift blade.

Angelo’s hand shot out to catch it, but he missed. The shank scored along his arm, tearing it open. At least it protected his vitals. He made a second grab and this time caught Sinclair’s wrist.

They struggled for control of the weapon, muscles straining, teeth bared in twin snarls of rage. With a burst of desperate strength, Angelo wrenched Sinclair’s arm to the side, slamming it against a laundry machine until the shank clattered from his grasp.

Angelo snatched it up. He didn’t hesitate. With a guttural roar, he plunged the shank into Sinclair’s throat, feeling the sickening give of flesh as the sharpened plastic sank deep.

Sinclair’s eyes bulged, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. But Angelo didn’t stop. He yanked the shank free, only to bury it in Sinclair’s chest. Again and again, until all he could see was blood.

It wasn’t until Sinclair lay still and unmoving, his body a mangled ruin, that Angelo finally staggered to his feet. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the adrenaline surged through his veins. Pain throbbed in his ribs, his head, his knuckles, but he pushed it aside, his mind consumed with a single, overriding thought.

Milo.

Sinclair’s taunts echoed in his ears, images of Milo at the mercy of Sinclair’s crew flashing through his mind in a sickening slideshow. Angelo’s heart seized, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow at the thought of what they could be doing to him, the horrors they could be inflicting on him.

He lurched into motion, clutching his bleeding arm, his steps unsteady but determined as he staggered around the corner of a machine and straight into Rafael.

“?Jesucristo!” Rafael took one look at Angelo, covered in blood, and then at what was left of Sinclair on the floor. “?Hijo de mil putas! I thought you were going to leave Sinclair alone!”

Angelo shook his head, still buzzing from the fight. “He came after me. I don’t have time for this. He said they had Milo,” he said, his throat choking on Milo’s name. “I have to go!”

Rafael held up his hands. “You have to wash that fucking blood off and do something with the body,” he said, as if he thought Angelo was an idiot. When Angelo opened his mouth, Rafael made a cutting gesture. “Nuh-uh, cabron. You walk out there looking like that girl in the Stephen King book, the guard will tackle you before you get two steps. I’ll look out for your boy. Just fucking…clean yourself up.”

He made a gesture like he was an inch from smacking Angelo in the head, and then he was gone.

Angelo breathed out, the adrenaline like poison in his veins. He didn’t care about the body, or what happened to himself. All that mattered was Milo, and the desperate, clawing need to keep him safe.

But Rafael was right. Angelo turned back, every instinct telling him he was making a mistake. He had to trust the Latinos and hope it wasn’t too late already.