Chapter Three

The morning klaxon echoed through the block, starting a jarring chorus of of clanging metal and gruff voices. Milo rubbed the sleep from his eyes and felt the familiar dread and fear come over him. Another day in this nightmare.

Below, he heard Torres stir. The man was a machine, rolling out of bed and immediately starting on his morning routine. Stretches. Then push ups. Milo did his best to stay out of the way.

The showers were hell. Milo washed as quickly as he could, dressed while still damp, and got into the breakfast line. A burly man with a neck tattoo pushed in front without so much as looking at him, and Milo let it happen. It’s not a café, he thought ruefully. And even if it had been, Milo wouldn’t have caused a fuss. He simply wasn’t that kind of person.

No, he was the kind of person who let his father talk him into taking the fall for the family crimes. Not that he’d fully understood those crimes—as usual, Milo had simply nodded and said yes to whatever his father said, and then whatever his lawyers said, and then whatever the judge said.

And now I’m here.

Breakfast was a hurried affair, the slop on his tray barely qualifying as food. Milo picked at it, his stomach churning at the thought of consuming something so gelatinous. Around him, hardened men shoveled food into their mouths, ignoring his existence when he was lucky.

The yard offered a brief reprieve from the confines of the cell, but the tension was palpable. Milo hugged the fences, avoiding the clusters of inmates who seemed to radiate danger. His gaze drifted to the guard towers, a longing for freedom swelling in him.

“Hey, pretty boy!” A voice cut through the din, causing Milo to flinch. “Come here, I’ve got something to show you.”

Laughter erupted around him, and Milo felt his cheeks burn with shame. He quickened his pace, desperate to escape their taunts. He longed for a familiar face, someone to remind him of the world beyond these walls.

Perhaps…if he could speak to his father, he could find out how the appeal was going. They were making an appeal, right? Suddenly he needed to know someone was trying to get him out of here.

Mustering his courage, he approached the guard station. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, his voice wavering. “Is there any way I could call my father?”

The guard’s laughter was like a slap in the face. “You think you’ve earned phone privileges? Dream on, cupcake.”

Milo kept his head down as he made his way back from the guard station, cheeks burning with humiliation. Just as he neared the safety of the cell block, a voice called out to him.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Milo turned to see an older white man with a shaved head approaching him. The man had a broad smile plastered across his weathered face.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” the man said, looking Milo up and down appraisingly. “You’ve got good genes, kid. Nice bone structure.”

Milo swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. “Uh, thanks. I’m Milo. Milo Mueller.”

The man’s smile widened. “Mueller, huh? That’s a good, strong German name.” He extended a calloused hand. “Jasper Sinclair.”

Nervously, Milo shook the offered hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Sir?” Sinclair chuckled. “No need for that. We’re all equals in here.” His pale eyes studied Milo intently. “So Mueller, is your mother German as well?”

Milo blinked, surprised by the question. “No? Her family came from Poland, actually.”

“Ah,” Sinclair exclaimed with an exaggerated wince. “Can’t be helped I suppose.” Before Milo could really comprehend that, Sinclair was moving on. “Your father is still alive?”

“Yes,” Milo said, confused by all of this.

There was an intensity about the older man that made him slightly unsettling, but his cheerful demeanor and friendly manner put Milo at ease. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt like he was back in the world he knew—making polite conversation, discussing family histories. It was a welcome reprieve.

Milo’s gaze caught on a tattoo on Sinclair’s forearm. It looked like a rune or ancient Viking symbol, white on a black shield. Something about it made Milo pause. Where had he seen it before?

“You know, Mueller, we’ve got a good group here. A brotherhood of sorts, looking out for our own kind.” His pale eyes glinted. “I’m the boss here. You might have heard of the Aryan Brotherhood.”

A chill went down Milo’s spine at those words. They were white supremacists, right? Like…literal Nazis?

“Racial purity is important,” Sinclair continued, his tone warm and paternal. “Keeping our bloodlines strong, preserving our heritage. That’s what we stand for.”

Milo felt nauseous. The things he was saying were disgusting, but he was doing so with such a friendly, fatherly demeanor. It was deeply unsettling.

“We could use a fine Aryan specimen like yourself in our ranks,” Sinclair said with an appraising nod. “The Brotherhood could protect you from all the trash in here.”

Milo felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. Shocked, he stared at Sinclair, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I…I can’t,” Milo stammered, shaking his head. The thought of aligning himself with white supremacists made him feel ill.

But Sinclair’s friendly demeanor didn’t falter. He let out a light chuckle, as though Milo was a naive child who simply didn’t understand. “You don’t know what you’re turning down,” he said, his voice taking on a paternal tone. “The Brotherhood looks out for its own. We protect each other in here.”

Milo swallowed hard, mustering his courage. “I don’t need protection from anyone. I’m fine on my own.”

Those pale eyes studied him for a moment, as though sizing him up. Milo felt a shiver run through him at the intensity of that gaze.

“You might think you’re fine now,” Sinclair said, his voice lowering to an ominous tone. “But this is a dangerous place for a pretty little thing like you. Sooner or later, someone’s going to make you their bitch.”

The crudeness of his words made Milo flinch. He opened his mouth to respond, but Sinclair raised a hand to silence him.

“I’m giving you a choice here, Mueller. Join us and have the full protection of your white brothers. Or go it alone and face the consequences.” His lips curved into a cold smile. “Think it over. But don’t take too long.”

With that, Sinclair turned and strode away, leaving Milo rooted to the spot.

Join a racist gang, or risk being preyed upon by the other inmates? The thought made Milo’s stomach churn. Surely there had to be another way to survive in this nightmarish place.

He tried to push the disturbing encounter from his thoughts but found his gaze constantly scanning the faces of the inmates around him. Suddenly, certain tattoos and symbols seemed to jump out at him. A group of burly white men lounged against the fence. One of them caught Milo staring and flashed him a sharp smile. He had the same runic tattoo on his arm that Sinclair had. Milo quickly averted his eyes, a shudder running through him.

As he passed by the weight room, Milo spotted more of them through the open door. Several men grunted and lifted, their tattooed arms straining with the effort. That rune, and several other symbols he remembered from a thread on Twitter about secret signs of racism. He moved away, hunching to avoid being spotted.

Everywhere he looked, he spotted a man who could easily be one of the white supremacists. They were everywhere, their presence a looming threat that surrounded him at every turn. And they were watching him, he was sure of it. He was an obvious target, and now that Sinclair had approached him, he had no doubt the others were keeping tabs on him.

The weight of their scrutinizing gazes was suffocating. Milo could almost feel their eyes burning into him, demanding that he join them.

He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. In this terrifying new world, simply existing as himself became political. The realization was overwhelming, and Milo had to fight back the panic rising in him.

Because why did they want him to join? He wasn’t big, tough, or dangerous. No, he was still as weak as he’d always been. There was only one reason they wanted him to join, and it was the same thing they were apparently going to protect him from. I’ll be someone’s bitch, one way or another.

Milo didn’t have to wait long to find out the consequences of rejecting Sinclair.

He’d been looking for a place to hide, and he found himself alone in a corridor. The cinderblock walls seemed to close in around him, the air thick and oppressive. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

And then he heard a footstep behind him. Someone grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. He let out a startled cry, staring up at the two white men who had cornered him.

There was no one else around. Milo realized with dread that this was it.

“Well, well, if it ain’t the fish,” one of them sneered.

The other inmate cracked his knuckles menacingly. “You had a chance to join us, and you turned it down. Changed your mind?”

Milo’s heart hammered as he struggled against their grip. “I don’t want any trouble…”

“Too late for that.”

A fist hit him in the gut. Milo doubled over in agony. Then he took a fist to the face. White-hot pain exploded through his head as he crumpled to the ground. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his cheek. Panic rose in his throat as the two men loomed over him, their faces twisted into cruel sneers.

“Please,” he whimpered, scrabbling backwards. “Don’t…”

A heavy boot slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a breathless wheeze. Milo gasped for air. He curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect himself as they assaulted him from all sides. He squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears leaking from the corners as the agony became overwhelming.

It was too much. Terror and agony consumed him.

Please, someone. Please make it stop.

He was going to die here. Alone, beaten to death in some dark corridor of this hellish place. Hot tears streamed down his face at the realization. He didn’t want to die, not like this.

Suddenly, the assault ceased. Milo heard angry shouts and the scuffling of feet. Cautiously, he peered out from beneath his arms to see what was happening.

His assailants had been pulled off him. One was grappling with a muscular figure, while the other was backing away warily.

Torres.

His cellmate moved with lethal grace, effortlessly overpowering the first attacker and sending him crashing to the ground. He whirled to face the second man, fists raised in a fighting stance.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Torres snarled.

The second inmate seemed to consider pressing the attack for just a moment. But then he muttered a curse and turned to flee down the corridor. The other one, abandoned, swore loudly and scrambled to his feet.

“This isn’t over,” he spat.

“It better be,” Torres said darkly.

The man made a run for it. Torres watched him go, chest heaving slightly from the exertion. Then he turned his attention to Milo.

Relief washed over Milo in a dizzying wave. He hadn’t realized just how certain he’d been of his impending death until that moment. Torres had saved him. The realization struck him with visceral force, and a sob of gratitude escaped him.

Torres regarded him impassively for a moment, then extended a callused hand. Milo grasped it gratefully, and the larger man pulled him easily to his feet.

Milo swayed unsteadily, the room spinning around him. His face throbbed in time with his racing heartbeat, and he could already feel the areas that would soon bloom into ugly bruises. But he was alive.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, the simple words carrying the weight of everything he felt in that moment. Torres had saved him.

He stared at Torres, heart still pounding. His savior stood over him, chest heaving slightly from exertion. Sweat glistened on Torres’s muscular arms, dampening the fabric of his shirt where it clung to his powerful frame.

An inappropriate warmth bloomed in Milo’s belly as he drank in the sight. Torres’s tanned skin glistened with a light sheen, and Milo found himself following a bead of sweat as it trailed down the column of the man’s throat. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how close Torres was standing, the intimidating bulk of him radiating an almost feral intensity.

Shame washed over Milo as he realized where his thoughts had wandered. He quickly averted his gaze, cheeks burning with embarrassment. What was wrong with him? Getting aroused from this? He was disgusting.

“You’re lucky,” Torres growled, his gruff voice snapping Milo’s attention back to the present. “Those Aryan pricks aren’t going to let this go.”

Milo flinched at the brusque words, shame compounding his humiliation. Of course Torres would be repulsed by his weakness, by the way he’d allowed himself to be beaten so easily. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Torres cut him off with an impatient wave.

“You need to find someone to protect you in here, princesa,” he said, the mocking nickname dripping with disdain. “Because those Nazis aren’t going to stop until you’re dead or their bitch.”

The crudeness of his words made Milo’s stomach churn, but he knew Torres was right. He was a target.

“I don’t want any part of them,” Milo said, hating how small his voice sounded.

Torres didn’t seem to care. “If you don’t find a protector, you’re going to end up as meat on the end of someone’s dick.” He spoke with a disgust that seemed disproportionate, as though he took the threat personally. Anger rolled off him in waves, far more intense than Milo would have expected.

It was almost as if Torres was furious on his behalf, Milo realized with a start. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

Torres shook his head and turned around. “Watch your back,” he said, and then he strode away.

Milo scurried after him, too afraid to be alone again.

Clearly, he was in over his head here—he needed a protector, and fast, if he wanted to survive.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped him at the thought. A protector! What was he, some wilting damsel? The very notion was almost laughable. Yet here he was, completely out of his element in this harsh new world. He was utterly helpless.

All these gangs and affiliations. If only there was a trust fund gang, he thought ruefully. But money wouldn’t help him in here. Unless he could find someone to protect him, he was on his own.

And what would you have to do for protection?he asked himself, looking at Torres’s strong, intimidating back. More importantly, what wouldn’t he do? He was out of options. He was going to have to make a choice, and soon.