Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

25

Breakfast.

Similar to previous days. It’s a time of gossip among the inmates, and The Gang is not above it. Everyone shares stories they learnt from their cellmates during the forced hours locked up in their cells. Today is no different. However, today the gossip is a little more interesting. Izz’s stunned into silence as Sinj continued with the bombshell he’d dropped.

“Guards are calling it a pact-suicide. The evidence to link them to the death of that guard was in their cell. The knife that killed him, wrapped in a shirt hidden under their mattress.”

Izz can’t believe what Sinj is saying. It’s absurd. The suicide of two inmates, who killed—only they didn’t. They didn’t kill the guard they are being accused of killing. He killed the guard. And he sure didn’t use a knife to do it.

So why are these two random inmates being called murderers? Why are they being blamed for the guard’s death? They hung themselves in their shared cell, but why? He knows they didn’t kill the guard and they surely knew they didn’t do it.

So why are they dead? And why is the knife found in their cell being called the murder weapon?

The guard was killed with a broken wooden broom handle. Not a knife—how did they even get a knife in prison? Did they steal it from the kitchen?

“Mark and Harry killed the guard?” Blake’s exasperated voice chimes in like he, too, cannot believe it.

“Who are they?” Izz ponders out loud. Who are they blaming for the death he had caused?

Izz hadn’t expected an answer, Reni fills him in anyway. “Those two from our Wing—dude with the ugly dragon tattoo and his friend. They didn’t have the balls to kill a guard, if you ask me, it was . . . Well . . . You know,” Reni glances over at Sinn'ous.

Guess again roommate .

Sure, Sinn'ous may have framed the inmates—he’ll ask when they’re alone again—but Sinn'ous sure as shit did not kill the guard as Reni is insinuating.

The Gang went back and forth discussing the suicides and guard’s death. Theories are tossed around with others dismissing them. Meals eaten absently between banter. It’s not long until they are done and ready to head off to start their day in the prison yard.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Izz doesn’t wait for a response, ditching his tray and rushing off in his excitement to find Sinn'ous.

Turns out to be easy. Sinn'ous is already waiting for Izz, leaning back against the corridor wall. Much to his relief, he did not want to wander around the prison—alone—to find Sinn'ous. Not after what happened the last time . . .

“You sure you still want to do this?” Izz’s mildly surprised Sinn'ous cares enough to ask.

Rubbing his mouth to hide a little smile—Izz doesn’t want Sinn'ous to think he’s crazy or clingy . . . or something equally embarrassing. He’s excited to get a new tattoo, that’s all there is to it—well . . . maybe he is extra giddy because it’s going to link him to Sinn'ous.

Sinn'ous holds out a miniature water bottle to Izz—it’s half the size of the ones he used on the outside. He frowns but takes the offering, opening his mouth to ask what it’s for—the male opens his fist to reveal two white pills nestled in his palm.

Oh, pain killers.

“The pains not so bad,” Izz murmurs, gathering the medication as he twists the bottle’s lid off.

Only two this time? Why three before?

Izz shrugs off his inner question, pushing it to the back of his mind. It’s not important. He trusts Sinn'ous.

Sinn'ous prowls ahead, leading the way, Izz falling in step behind him. Dumping the near empty miniature bottle in a bin as he hurries to keep up with the male’s long strides. Watching the predatory male gliding through the corridors like he owns the place. Dangerous and not someone to fuck with. Other inmates clearing a path, scrambling to move out of his way.

Powerful.

The cell they arrive at is plain and boring, no personal belongings on the shelves. No photos or posters hanging on the walls. Smaller than the cells in his Wing. The only thing in the one-prisoner cell—apart from the skeletons of furniture—are two boxes, nestled on top of the knee-high cupboard, filled with a collection of little glass bottles—must be tattoo ink?

A free-floating chair—rare, considering the prison has a thing for bolting everything to the floor—is pushed against the cupboard, holding a gun like device— the tattoo gun —

Are they called tattoo guns? Or tattoo machines?

This must be the place inmates come for their tattoos. It doesn’t appear very . . . legal . . . Do the guards not know inmates are tattooed in here? He’d never thought if they are allowed to get tattoos or if it’s strictly prohibited. The equipment to do it would have to be classed as contraband, wouldn’t it?

“Where are we?” Izz whispers, stepping in close behind Sinn'ous, attaching himself to the male’s personal bubble. His anxiety is rising at how silent this Wing is, he’d gotten use to how loud prison is, now that the noise is gone, he notices it.

This Wing . . . Is dead.

There are no other souls in the area, no inmates, no guards. He is effectively isolated, in a room with . . . a serial killer . . .

This better not be the time everyone says ‘I told you so’ as he’s lying in a forgotten prison Wing dying . . .

“I-Wing. It’s unoccupied, no guards will bother us here,” Sinn'ous explains, stepping further into the cell.

The answer does not lessen Izz’s anxiety—

“This your bitch you want inked?”

Izz startles at the new voice behind him, spinning to face the intruder, and backing up into Sinn'ous space, leaning against the male’s solid frame.

Who are they?

The newly arrived inmate is leaning against the cell’s barred door. Cocky grin in place over slightly chubby features. His face is clear of any ink—the same can’t be said for the rest of him. Every fleck of skin Izz can see is covered, including his ears. His prison shirt is worn out and torn in places, revealing inked skin underneath.

Wait . . . ? Bitch . . . ?

Is a ‘ bitch’ all he is to Sinn'ous?

Does this mean he’d have to . . . to be with Sinn'ous —he’s not against the idea, he merely wants it to be his decision. Not based on conditions for protection—

Sinn'ous surges forward, grabbing the inmate’s shirt collar, shoving them up against the cell wall, pushing his face in tight to the other’s mug. “You’ll refrain from ever referring to him in that manner.”

The chubby inmate nods, eyes bulging like they’re liable to pop out of their sockets. Izz’s sure his eyes are doing the same. He’s never witnessed Sinn'ous this way. Never seen how aggressive Sinn'ous can be. How quick the aggression erupts to the surface.

“This is Izz,” Sinn'ous continues, flicking his head back over his shoulder to indicate where Izz’s standing—without taking his eyes off the man he has pinned.

Guess Sinn'ous is true on his word, regarding the ‘not needing to pay for protection ’. He hadn’t given Sinn'ous anything, yet here the male is, protecting Izz’s honour.

Sinn'ous leans in, to breathe something into the other’s ear. Izz could have sworn it was, “and he’s mine,” but he’s sure his ears are interpreting it wrong. No way is Sinn'ous being possessive over him. That is too out of this world to believe. No serial killer is going to do that for anyone . . .

Sinn'ous backs off, and the other inmate straightens up. Skirting around Sinn'ous to a small stool next to the tattooing supplies. This must be the artist, he should have figured it out sooner, but his mind is a little preoccupied. He’s not entirely sure he trusted his body in the hands of someone who’d just been threatened. He’s liable to wind up with a dick, or something equally unpleasant, inked into his skin.

“Take a seat, please, Izz.” The guy’s attitude sure has changed—polite and then some.

Izz follows the instructions, perching on the edge of the bare bunk. Watching Sinn'ous pull a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket. Handing it over to the artist, who flattens it out on their thigh.

Izz can’t see what is on the page, the angle the artist is seated at keeping whatever is on it out of his sight. Guess it will be a surprise for him when it’s finished.

The artist scans over the paper as he clicks together various parts of the tattoo machine—or gun. “Easy enough. Where am I putting it?”

Izz opens his mouth to answer, only to find the artist hadn’t directed the question at him. Instead they are focused directly on Sinn'ous.

“Above the hip, will suit him . . . Is that okay with you.” There’s a brief pause during which Izz takes his time studying the floor, the little rocks and dust clumps scattered over it.

“Izz?”

Izz blinked, peering up at Sinn'ous. “Huh?”

Both sets of eyes in the cell are staring at Izz, waiting—the last question must have been aimed at him. He’d thought Sinn'ous was talking with the artist. “Oh, yeah. The hip is fine. Yes.”

I mean I had been thinking the thigh or calf, but if Sinn'ous says it will suit me there . . . I’d like it there. I can always get another tattoo on my thigh later.

~~~

Turns out the ‘ calling card’ is Sinn'ous’s name. Red splatter ink highlighting the bare skin around the curving letters spelling out . . .

Sinn’ous .

It very much resembles a blood splatter. Quite similar to the tattoo Sinn'ous has at the small of his own back—a miniature version of it, and less masculine. Petite letters curling above Izz’s hip bone. Flowing perfectly with his body shape—

I feel like a girl, with the delicately written name of her boyfriend on her hip.

Izz can’t choke back the laugh. He is aware the others in the cell are no doubt considering him a crazy person, who’s lost any hope of presenting as normal. For him, and his weird thoughts, it’s the funniest thing in the world.

He has to physically beat his giggles into submission. Before Sinn'ous decides to leave him in I-Wing with the rest of the Psych inmates joining the prison population.

He smiles softly at Sinn'ous who is smirking at him. Maybe the male can actually read minds. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise him if the mysterious mohawked inmate can enter his thoughts.

He turns towards the artist to break the eye contact, “you’re very skilled. How long have you been—never mind.” Izz doesn’t want to appear as if he’s prying.

“Don’t worry about it, and several years now. Was a hobby on the outside, became my thing in here.”

Izz nods. The inmate may have indulged his curiosity, but he doesn’t want to push it. He isn’t entirely sure the artist hadn’t answered in self-preservation. To not piss off the serial killer hovering close by.

He pulls his shirt back on after the artist places a patch over the new ink. He’s given a tube of something to apply to the fresh ink, to help with the healing process. He will be keeping this tattoo the cleanest he has ever kept one. He’s not messing up the ink work. Not when it means so much to him.

This new ink holds a power to it. A burning stinging shield against the world—the prison world. A reminder he does in fact have someone in here who is taking care of him. Who won’t allow anything bad to happen to him.

~~~

The walk back to A-Wing had been quiet and uneventful. His scratchy prison clothes irritating his skin—Izz’s weirdly conscious of his new tattoo even with the patch over it.

“It suits you, Beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Izz shifts shyly on Sinn'ous’s bunk, “I like it—” Izz freezes, words cut off mid-sentence—

He is uncertain how he came to be in this situation. He’d walked back with Sinn'ous to the Satanic cell at the end of the second-floor platform. Sat down on the mattress-stacked bunk . . . and the rest is a blur. What steals his focus and fizzles his short-term memories is Sinn'ous’s lips. Hot, smooth, pressed against his own . . .

Izz’s motionless. Unsure what he should do next—

The kiss is over before it starts. As quick as a gasp, Sinn'ous is pulling away. Snapping Izz out of his dazed shock.

Did that truly happen?

“Forgive me. You’re perched there delectably, I couldn’t help myself.”

Izz’s eyes dart over Sinn'ous’s features. Over his black eyes, his coloured hair, his . . . lips . . .

Leaning back in, Izz brings his own mouth down onto delightfully full lips. Kissing Sinn'ous with a growing hunger.

He weaves his hands into Sinn'ous’s hair. Deepening their kiss. Groaning at the exquisitely silky strands, a welcome delight. He’d half expected the mohawk to be stiff and crispy with hair gel—unrelenting to match its owner. It’s as if his hair grew upright in its styled glory without a need for hair products.

Izz opens up into the kiss, drawing Sinn'ous down to him. He likes this, it’s not rough or unwelcome. He doesn’t feel as if he has no control. He is secure, protected. He knows Sinn'ous won’t hurt him—

Izz gasps as his world flips, his back hitting the foam bedding, the prison mattresses contorting to his and Sinn'ous’s combined weight. His lips part in shock—digging his fingers into Sinn'ous hair—chasing the tongue probing to enter his mouth. He lets Sinn'ous in. Opens up to the larger male. Welcomes the sparking heat surging through his veins.

He exhales as the connection is broken, his protest turning into a broken-off cry as those talented lips work their way over his neck. Licking and nipping at the delicate skin—

Izz grunts softly as the bites turn sharper. A steady hand gripping his chin as those teeth sink in. The sting of pain shooting down his nervous system like a highway carrying hot energy—aiming for his crotch. He is rock hard in a split second, throbbing in his confinement. His neck exposed to the male above him, vulnerable in the best possible way.

I never knew I had a biting kink . . .

He sure does now. It’s amazing. The licks of pain. The sparks burning his arousal deeper into his flesh.

He’s hot, needy. Arching up into Sinn'ous. The bite isn’t hard enough to break skin—but there’s no doubt it’s left a decent mark. A branding . . . different from the tattoo. This one is made by Sinn'ous, not in dedication to the male.

Izz’s in heaven. Delectably —to steal Sinn'ous word.

Through his burning haze, he can feel hands working their way under his shirt, shoving past prison greys to brush bare skin. Licks of sensation following the fingertips working their way down his abdomen. Dipping under his waistband—

Izz sucks his stomach in, hollowing out his hips to allow access. Sinn'ous takes full advantage of the invitation, fingers wandering further inside . . . closer to the place he’s begging to be touched.

Izz digs his nails into Sinn'ous’s hips, trying to urge the other on. To hurry up and touch him—

Teeth clamp down on his neck further down than the last bite. The sharp stinging pain jolting his body off the mattress—

This new kink is driving him crazy . . .

Fingers brush over his inner thigh, so close to their goal. He needs Sinn'ous to touch him, needs to feel the heat of hands on his sensitive skin.

The first brush of flesh on flesh is electric, drawing a rattled breath from his chest—

Everything shifts at once. Like an ice-cold bucket tipped over his head. It is no longer a welcome touch. No longer soft and careful—he is thrust back—back in time, to a different cell—a cell with four inmates leering at him. The unwanted touches—

Izz cries out—this time in fear, not reciprocated pleasure—shoving at the heavy weight on top of him. His mind filling with images racing all around. Too many faces flashing past. Too many hands, too much contact—

He scrambles away, his back hitting the wall, pulling his knees tightly into himself—

He can’t breathe—

His lungs don’t work—

He’s going to die—

“Relax.”

A soft faraway voice whispers into his downwards spiralling void. His body spinning and twisting with present reality mixing with past. Swirling in a knot of pain and fear.

“Breathe.”

Izz follows the instructions. Concentrating on his breathing. Stamping out the images trying to take over.

“It will pass.”

He’s aware he’s in the throes of a panic attack—doesn’t make it any less real. Or any easier to pull himself out of. The whispered reassuring words are helping him. Slowly easing him out of his mind’s downwards spiral.

“You’re fine. I’m right here.”

He’s not used to this. It’s so real. As if he has actually jumped back in time and is helpless once more, in the clutches of those . . . degenerates. Logically, he knows it is all in his head. The inmates who had hurt him are dead. They can never harm him again.

“I’m right with you. You’re not alone.”

Izz grabs onto Sinn'ous’s voice, using it to calm his breathing enough to force out an explanation. Knowing he owes one to Sinn'ous. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. You can choose to stop any time you like. It’s your choice. And I will respect it. We can wait until you’re ready.”

Izz blinks into his folded arms, he hadn’t been aware just how tightly he’s hugging his legs. Holding himself in a safe embrace, clutching onto himself so he doesn’t collapse, doesn’t sink into the tornado of emotions and memories.

“How are you so nice?” Izz mumbles into his knees. “You’re a serial killer. How are you like this? So kind and gentle with me.”

“You intrigue me,” Sinn'ous offers in way of explanation, the same thing he’d said to Izz in the showers. He pauses for a brief moment before choosing to elaborate further, “closest I’ve come to feeling anything towards someone, outside of what it’s like for them to . . . no longer be around . . . but don’t call me that. I am not a serial killer . I am only me. Who I have always been. Not some make-believe-thing normal people invent to allow themselves to feel better about living boring sheltered lives.”

‘No longer around . . .’

Does Sinn'ous mean when they die—when he kills them?

Sinn'ous’s explanation leaves Izz with more questions than answers. He will have to consider how to put all the things he wants to know into words. To ask at a later time.

Izz smirks when his mind catches on to the last of what Sinn'ous said.

“Something amusing?” Sinn'ous obviously clicking on to Izz’s shift in mood.

“You can live a perfectly eventful life without killing anyone,” Izz smiles over at the male. Watching Sinn'ous’s face spark with delight and something . . . sinister?—he can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

Izz laughs. His body loosening from its tight defensive ball. The panic attack receding as fast as it came on. A lingering unease is left in its wake. An easy thing for Izz to shove to the back of his mind. Especially with the stinging pain in his hip and neck. The brandings of the male who’s shown him compassion and kindness in a sea of manipulation and lies. Someone he wholeheartedly trusts.

“You’re strange,” Izz playfully mocks, his smile broadening.

Sinn'ous shows his own form of amusement, his usual stone-cold face cracking with lines of emotions, “is it a good or bad thing.”

Izz’s not entirely sure. He likes Sinn'ous. Enjoys the other’s company. But he is a killer. One who enjoys killing. Dangerous.

You can’t trust someone who feels nothing for others. Who desires to kill, holding zero remorse.

He knows he shouldn’t be so trusting, yet he finds himself embracing it with open arms.

Why do I feel this way about this male? Am I safe . . . or will this be how I die?

“Haven’t worked it out yet,” Izz murmurs in response.

And it is the truth. He has no idea why he is this way. Why he is willing to trust his life in the hands of a psychopath. Which is what Sinn'ous is, isn’t it? An un-empathetic killer . . .