Chapter Seventeen

Milo meticulously mopped the floor of the medical center, making neat swipes across the linoleum. The scent of the disinfectant was harsh but clean, and he found it oddly soothing. Working in the medical center provided a welcome reprieve from the chaos of general population.

“Milo, I need you to restock the bandages,” Nurse Williams called from the next room.

“Sure thing!” he called back. He was grateful for her brusque kindness amidst this brutal environment. She treated him firmly but fairly, shielding him from the cruelties of the other inmates.

As he organized the supply closet, Milo’s thoughts inevitably drifted to Torres. His body grew warm imagining those powerful hands pinning him down, Torres’s chiseled frame looming over him. He trembled at the prospect of submitting utterly to this dangerous, irresistible man.

Torres consumed Milo’s every waking thought and fantasy. The curve of those full lips, the intense heat in his dark eyes, the coiled strength rippling beneath his tan skin…

“Earth to Milo!” Nurse Williams’s sharp voice sliced through his reverie. “What’s gotten into you today?”

Milo managed not to knock everything off the carefully organized shelves.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I, uh, didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

His cheeks burned as Nurse Williams’s eyes flicked to the mottled bruises blooming across his throat. He tugged self-consciously at the collar of his scrubs, wishing he could disappear.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. Those don’t look like accident marks,” she said, her usual brisk tone softening with concern. “If someone’s hurting you, you can tell me. We can get you some help.”

Milo opened his mouth, then closed it, struggling for words. How could he explain the thrill that sparked through him when Torres pinned him down? The delicious ache of Torres’s thick fingers digging into his skin?

“It’s not like that,” he finally managed, unable to meet her steady gaze. Heat crept up the back of his neck. “I mean, it is, but it’s…consensual.”

Nurse Williams’s frown deepened. “Are you sure about that, Milo? This is a prison. Consent can be complicated.”

“No, really, I swear!” The words tumbled out in a desperate rush. “He’d never actually hurt me. At least, not, um…not like that. He’s…we’re…” Milo trailed off, cheeks flaming.

How could he explain? If he tried he’d sound crazy. Maybe that means I am crazy, he thought.

But what he said aloud was, “It’s complicated.”

Nurse Williams studied him a moment longer, then sighed. “Well, if you’re sure. But you’d better be careful, you hear? Men like that.” She shook her head. “Just look out for yourself, okay?”

Milo nodded quickly, even as a traitorous voice hissed that it was already far too late for that.

Out in the office, the phone rang, and Nurse Williams went to it. Milo returned to his sorting, not really listening to the call. But then he heard his name and stopped dead.

“Milo? What for? Oh. Well, that’s—oh. All right.”

Nurse Williams came back into the room, frowning to herself. She turned to him, her dark eyes searching his face. “That was the Warden’s office,” she said slowly. “They want to see you right away.”

Milo’s stomach plummeted. “Me? Why?”

Nurse Williams shook her head. “They wouldn’t say. But don’t worry, Milo. It should be fine. Just, if anything happens, you come straight to me, okay? I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

Milo nodded, throat too tight to speak. He stepped out of the medical bay on shaky legs, expecting to see one of the Latinos waiting to escort him as usual. But instead, there were two prison guards, their faces stern and impassive.

“Mueller? Come with us.”

They flanked him on either side, hurrying him along the barren hallway. The walls were the same sickly green as the rest of the prison offices, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare.

Milo’s mind raced with terrible possibilities. Had something happened to Torres? His chest constricted at the thought. No, surely the Warden wouldn’t summon Milo for that. Would he?

Unless Torres was being transferred. Or released. Milo’s heart lurched at the idea of facing this hellhole alone, without Torres’s protection.

Milo shook his head, trying to dislodge the spiraling panic. It couldn’t be that. It had to be something else. Maybe they found out about me and Torres. Maybe they’re going to split us up, or…or I don’t know.

By the time they reached the Warden’s door, Milo’s palms were slick with sweat. He wiped them surreptitiously on his scrubs, trying to slow his breathing. The guards knocked once, sharply.

“Enter,” came a muffled voice.

The door swung open. Milo stepped inside, his heart in his throat, bracing himself for the worst. But he stopped short, his eyes widening at the lavish decor. Faux-mahogany paneling covered the walls, polished to a gleaming sheen. A Persian rug, its intricate patterns muted by age, spanned the mock hardwood floor. Leather-bound books lined the shelves. Was that a knock-off Tiffany lamp?

It looked like a cheap copy of his father’s office, utterly at odds with the drab, institutional aesthetic of the rest of the prison. Milo ran a self-conscious hand through his lank hair, keenly aware of how out of place he looked in his orange jumpsuit and worn undershirt.

The Warden himself rose from behind an enormous desk, regarding Milo with an inscrutable expression. He was an imposing figure in his pressed gray suit, his steel-gray hair perfectly coiffed. Not a single wrinkle marred the fabric of his starched shirt.

“Ah, Mr. Mueller,” he said in a smooth baritone. “Thank you for joining us.”

Us? Milo’s brow furrowed in confusion—until his gaze landed on the two visitors seated before the Warden’s desk.

“Serena?” The name escaped his lips in a gasp.

His older sister rose gracefully to her feet. As always, she looked impeccably put together, from the sleek lines of her navy pantsuit to the elegant twist of her golden hair. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. A tiny frown creased her brow, her ruby-painted lips pressed into a tight line as she surveyed Milo with poorly concealed dismay. Beside her, the family’s lawyer, Marcus Greenwood, remained seated, his expression blank and unreadable.

Milo’s fingers drifted up to worry at his collar, his face heating. He was keenly aware of the purpling bruises peeking over the fabric—souvenirs of Torres. His hair was lank and overgrown, his prison jumpsuit a far cry from the Tom Ford ensembles he’d been used to at home.

He must look like a complete wreck compared to Serena’s polished perfection. Shame and self-consciousness welled up in him as she strode forward, enveloping him in a brief, stiff hug.

“Milo,” she murmured, her voice strained. “You look…well, you look tired.” She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length as she drank in his disheveled appearance. Concern flickered in her green eyes. “Is that a bruise? Has someone been—”

“I’m fine, Serena, really,” Milo rushed to reassure her, pasting on a weak smile. The words tasted like a lie on his tongue. He was far from fine if he was being honest with himself.

But he pushed those dark thoughts aside, focusing instead on the warm glow of seeing his sister again after so many months. She hadn’t come to visit him, not once since he’d been incarcerated. None of his family had. There had only been a handful of terse phone calls, their voices clipped and uncomfortable, before the contact trailed off into radio silence.

He’d been left utterly alone to fend for himself in this nightmarish place. Until Torres.

A flicker of hurt rippled through him at the realization that she was only here now because of whatever this meeting portended. But Milo quickly smothered the ember of resentment. She was here, and that was what mattered. Despite everything, she was still his sister. They had been so close as children before life slowly pulled them apart. He ached for even a fraction of that old affection and warmth between them.

Mustering a stronger smile, Milo nodded toward the lawyer. “Mr. Greenwood. It’s good to see you too.”

Mr. Greenwood inclined his head, a thin smile curving his lips. “A pleasure to see you as well, Milo. I trust you’ve been well, given the circumstances.”

Milo’s answering smile felt brittle on his face. He turned back to Serena, searching her expression for any clues as to the purpose of this unexpected visit. “So, what brings you here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course, but…”

Serena exchanged a loaded glance with Mr. Greenwood before clearing her throat delicately. “Well, Milo, we actually have some good news. You’re going to be released. Soon. As in, tomorrow morning.”

Milo blinked, certain he must have misheard. “I’m what? Released? But how? I don’t—”

“Father pulled some strings,” Serena interrupted, her tone clipped. “Called in a few favors, greased the right palms. You know how he is.”

Milo’s head spun as he tried to process this sudden turn of events. He darted a glance at the Warden, noting the man’s tight-lipped expression and white-knuckled grip on the edge of his desk. It was clear he was far from pleased with this development.

“With all due respect, Miss Mueller,” the Warden ground out through clenched teeth, “I must express my reservations about this highly irregular situation. Your brother is still serving his sentence for a reason.”

Serena lifted her chin, fixing the Warden with an icy stare. “And with all due respect, Warden, my father’s attorneys have already handled all the necessary paperwork. This is happening, whether you like it or not.”

The Warden’s jaw worked, a vein throbbing in his temple, but he said nothing further. Milo got the distinct impression that Serena and Mr. Greenwood had already steamrolled over any objections the man might have raised.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Milo said slowly, still struggling to wrap his mind around the idea of freedom, of leaving Vanguard behind. Leaving Torres behind. His chest tightened at the thought. “I mean, I’m grateful, of course, but it’s just so sudden.”

“Yes, well, arrangements have been made,” Mr. Greenwood said dryly, shuffling a stack of papers. “Your father is eager to have you home, Milo. A car will be here to collect you at 9am sharp tomorrow. I trust you’ll be ready.”

“Right. Of course.” Milo swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I just…I need to say goodbye to some people first, before I go.”

Serena let out a tinkling laugh, the sound jarringly out of place. “Oh, Milo. Don’t tell me you actually made friends in here.” She shook her head, amused. “Only you would manage to find a social circle in prison, of all places.”

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. Milo thanked the Warden automatically, exchanging stilted goodbyes with Serena and Mr. Greenwood. He accepted his sister’s perfunctory hug with a sense of detachment, his mind still whirling.

Then, just like that, he was being escorted from the office by two stone-faced guards. One of them gripped Milo’s bicep tightly, his rough fingers digging into the tender flesh as he steered Milo along the corridors.

“Looks like Mueller doesn’t want to go home,” the other guard sneered as they walked. He leered at Milo, his gaze lingering on the visible bruises. “Gonna miss having your boyfriend around to protect you, huh?”

The cruel words barely registered through the haze of Milo’s spiraling thoughts. He stumbled along blindly, his mind consumed with Torres.

What would he think when Milo told him he was leaving? Would he be angry? Envious? Or would he shrug it off, already moving on to the next warm body to entertain him?

The idea caused a strange, hollow ache in Milo’s chest. He tried to push it away, to focus on the prospect of freedom awaiting him.

But as the guards shoved him through the door of his cell, that fragile sense of relief shattered into a million pieces.

Torres stood shirtless by the sink, his tanned skin gleaming with water as he scrubbed furiously at his hands. Milo’s breath caught at the rivulets trailing down those sculpted abs, the flex and shift of powerful muscle beneath bronzed flesh.

Then his gaze landed on the jagged gash scoring Torres’s forearm, crimson blood still welling sluggishly from the wound. Torres’s face was set in a grim, thunderous mask, his dark eyes blazing.

“Torres?” Milo gasped, propelled forward by instinct. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Torres’s head whipped around at the sound of Milo’s voice. For an endless heartbeat, he simply stared, his expression unreadable. Then, in two strides, he crossed the space between them and seized Milo by the shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” Torres demanded, giving Milo a rough shake. His eyes raked over Milo with an almost frantic intensity. “Did they do anything to you?”

“N-no, I’m fine,” Milo stammered, taken aback by the raw anguish twisting Torres’s features. “I swear, I’m okay. But you—your arm—”

Torres exhaled a harsh breath, the knot of tension easing ever so slightly from his frame. “It’s nothing. Just a misunderstanding that needed to be…corrected.”

He released Milo abruptly, his jaw tightening once more as he visibly wrestled his emotions back under control. Milo recognized that shuttered look, the way Torres sealed off his feelings behind an impenetrable wall of indifference. But this time, there were hairline fractures in the facade—fissures that allowed glimpses of the turmoil raging beneath.

“I looked for you,” Torres said grimly. “Rafael said you were taken to see the Warden.”

“Yes.” Milo’s heart thudded as he fought to find the words. “Torres, my family, they’ve arranged for me to be released. Early.”

Torres went utterly still, his expression shuttering into a blank, impenetrable mask. But Milo fancied he detected a fleeting shimmer of emotion in those dark eyes before the walls slammed back into place.

“They’re coming to pick me up tomorrow morning,” Milo continued, his voice emerging as a tight rasp. “I’ll be leaving Vanguard. For good.”

He searched Torres’s face desperately for any hint of reaction, any crack in that stony facade. But the other man’s features remained an unreadable mask, his jaw tightly clenched.

At last, Torres exhaled a low, humorless chuckle. “So the little princesa gets to go home, huh? How convenient for you.”

His lips curved into a mocking sneer, but the look in his eyes was dark and turbulent, an emotion Milo couldn’t quite read swirling in their depths. “Must be nice to have a rich familia to bribe your way out of the consequences.”

The derisive words lashed out like a physical blow, stealing Milo’s breath. He flinched, pain blossoming at the naked disdain in Torres’s tone.

Of course Torres would react this way, with scorn and bitterness. What had Milo expected, really? That he might feel something more? That he’d be upset to see Milo go?

The very notion was foolish, a childish fantasy spun from the fragile threads of intimacy they’d woven over these past months. Whatever existed between them, it could never be more than temporary. To Torres, he was nothing more than a warm body. A pretty diversion to pass the time until his eventual release.

And yet, as Milo studied the taut lines of Torres’s face, the way his jaw worked as if biting back harsher words, he couldn’t shake the sense that the other man’s indifference was just a meticulously crafted mask.

Emboldened by that notion, by the slender thread of hope unfurling, Milo took a tentative step forward. Torres tensed, his eyes darkening as Milo reached up to trace the harsh line of his cheekbone with trembling fingertips.

Torres inhaled a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t knock Milo’s hand aside or snarl a contemptuous rebuke.

He simply stood there, motionless, allowing Milo’s touch to linger against his stubble-roughened skin as they studied each other in heavy silence. Torres’s gaze was inscrutable, but Milo thought he glimpsed a fleeting shimmer of raw anguish there, buried beneath layers of studied indifference. A hairline fracture in his meticulously constructed armor that revealed the truth.

“Torres.” Milo’s voice emerged as a breathless rasp. He swallowed hard, suddenly lightheaded. “I think I might be in love with you.”

Torres went utterly still, his expression unreadable. Then, a muscle ticked in his clenched jaw, and he exhaled a low, mirthless chuckle.

“You’re wrong, princesa,” he said, his tone heavy with a strange mix of weariness and…pity? “Whatever you might be feeling, it’s not love. Lust, sure. But Love? No.”

Milo shook his head mutely, his throat constricting with a potent surge of emotion—desperation, defiance, a refusal to simply accept Torres’s weary denial.

“No,” he rasped. “No, you’re wrong. I know how I feel.” He surged forward again, gripping Torres’s wrist in his fingers. “And I’m not just going to walk away and pretend it never happened, that you never meant anything to me. I’ll come back for you, Torres. When your sentence is up, I’ll be waiting right there at the gates. We can be together. For real.”

Torres’s eyes darkened to burnished onyx, his jaw tightening incrementally. For an endless moment, silence hung between them, dense and impenetrable.

Then Torres’s lips peeled back in a contemptuous sneer, baring his teeth in a feral slash. “You really are a fool, princesa. Deluding yourself with these childish fantasies about us.”

It was cruel. But Milo caught the fleeting shimmer of anguish, of longing, in Torres’s eyes before the shutters slammed closed once more.

Torres was only protecting himself, Milo thought. He was lashing out. It hurt. But Milo stood his ground.

“All right,” he said. “Then tonight, let me delude myself one last time.”