Caged In (Caged Prison #1)

30

Izz momentarily freaks out when he stretches and discovers he’s not sleeping alone in his bunk. His eyes shoot open as his heart jackhammers under his sternum. Until his eyes latch onto a wall littered with devil drawings, and he recalls the night before.

How is he still in Sin’s cell? The guards’ surely know, they do Count every night.

Izz groans at the thought of the Count guard seeing him passed out in Sin’s bunk. He hopes he wasn’t naked. He does have a blanket over him now, it would stand to reason Sin put it on them before the guard showed for Count?

Izz peers behind him, to a sleeping serial killer. He has to admit, Sin doesn’t look deadly while asleep. With all his features relaxed, his dark eyes closed. It’s easy to forget who he is. And everything he’s done to others.

Slowly, Izz extracts himself from the other’s arm, shuffling off the bed, to use the metal toilet—

Stopping short when he catches sight of his reflection. He is littered with bruises. Leaning into the fake mirror, he probes the ring of bruises circling his neck. His shoulder is likewise black and blue, turning at an angle he can see the purple and red bite mark Sin put in his skin.

His hips are showing the same treatment. Finger sized bruises—he hadn’t realised just how hard Sin had been holding him. He was aware the grip was strong at the time, but hadn’t expected to be heavily bruised from it.

Izz resembles someone who’s had their ass ploughed. There is no way to mistake the markings. If he went to the showers with the rest of the prison population they will all see them, and know exactly what happened. Well . . . Maybe not exactly. If he hadn’t known better, he would think the bruises came from a victim who was forced into the act.

I was the opposite of forced.

Izz quite likes the bruises, they look hot on him. He loves wearing the claiming marks Sin has given him—

“You feeling alright,” Sin yawns from his bunk. Sheets flapping as he shifts around to a different position.

“Huh. Oh. Yes, I’m good. Was inspecting what you left behind,” and imagining what it will be like to add more to the growing collection . The bruises, the tattoo . . . He wants more.

“Regrets,” Sin questions in his usual way, a statement to be answered.

Do I regret them?

Twisting to get a better look at the bite on his neck, Izz runs his hand over the marred flesh.

Nah, he doesn’t regret any of them.

No, I definitely want more.

“No. No. Nothing like that. It’s actually pretty hot, if I say so myself. I’m looking rather fine,” Izz half jokes, splashing water over his face to wake himself up. He’s still pretty groggy, but not as fatigued as he usually finds himself in the mornings. As if for the first time since he arrived in this Hell-hole he’s had an undisturbed nights rest.

Although his ass is throbbing. A dull little tingle which has him remembering everything he and Sin did together . . .

“I’m sorry I passed out after you got me off. Do you want me to return the favour?” Izz asks, walking over to use Sin’s toilet. It would only be polite and he also sort of, kind of, wants to . . . He wants to see if he can make Sin feel as good as Sin made him feel.

The last part of their activities. Not the first bit. That hurt. Is still hurting. How is he going to be able to stand going the whole way with Sin? He can’t even handle taking half—

“No,” Sin’s response is short. Sharp. Almost bored.

“You sure? I could like . . .” Izz rubs the back of his neck, unable to look in Sin’s direction, “ . . . blow you—or something.”

Why is he so awkward and shy around Sin? It’s not as though he’d never been with anyone before. It just feels . . . different with Sin. For some reason. Though he can’t figure out why.

Is it because Sin’s so dangerous?—according to the other inmates. Or is it because they are in prison?

“No,” Sin repeats in the same nonchalant tone.

Is Sin mad at him?

Izz washes up after relieving himself and walks over to the bunk, perching on its edge. He hates this feeling, like he’s letting Sin down. Not good enough. Not what Sin needs him to be.

Sin is facing the wall, broad back bare to Izz’s eyes—

Whoa, Sin has a pentagram tattoo behind his ear, Izz can’t believe he’s never noticed it before. Maybe because he’s always too busy staring at Sin’s hair? Or into his dark eyes . . .

He wants to touch, to run his hands over Sin’s smooth skin. He’s not sure he’s allowed, not confident in whatever it is they have between them. He would like to call it a relationship. But what does Sin call it?

In the end he keeps his hands to himself. Deciding to play it safe. Especially if he’s done something wrong and Sin is displeased with him.

“Why? I um. Did I . . . Did I turn you off me, ‘cause I stopped it?—” he rushes to add on to his own question, “—I mean I’d like to try again. It was just a lot all at once. But I—”

“I wasn’t with you for my own satisfaction.”

Wait . . . What?

“What? What do you mean—Oh. Can you like not . . .” Izz does a few vulgar hand movements to indicate cumming, even though Sin can’t see him.

Sin chuckles in the way he does, deep with little to no emotion in the sound. Rolling over to face Izz. His smile is actually warm. Well, warm for him. “I can’t ‘ get off ’ without certain aspects being met.”

“Like?” Izz’s curious to know. He wants to know everything there is to learn about Sin. All his likes and dislikes. His desires. Favourite colour. Everything.

Sin doesn’t answer. Rising to his full naked glory, drifting over to pee in the toilet. Izz stares without apology—not at him peeing, ‘cause that would be weird. But his eyes eat up the body on full display before him. All the tattoos, smooth skin, and scars here and there.

The killer’s triple six tattoos on both his wrists match exceptionally well with the whole Satanic vibe the male’s ink is portraying.

The black tattoo coating one side of his abdomen is a circular figure eight cross of a solid black design—Leviathan cross?—with animal skulls and barbed wire interwoven throughout. A similar-looking design covers the back of one calf, from the look of it the skulls are human, and the solid black design is more a triangular Satanic witchy thing. This one Izz’s sure is the mark of Lucifer, he remembers it—from back in his rebellious school years when researching dark things was popular.

The word written at the small of Sin’s back is a larger version of the one on Izz’s own hip. Only Sin’s are thicker, bolder—the complete opposite to Izz’s more feminine curvy piece.

He’s disappointed to see Sin doesn’t have any bruises or anything from their time together. He would have enjoyed seeing those left behind. To signify their first dip into the waters of their relationship. To show others they are together.

I like calling it a relationship. Makes it sound . . . real. And not a figment of my imagination.

“Come on,” Izz whines. “I won’t blab to anyone or laugh at you or anything. I promise. Tell me . . . Please,” Izz adds on the last plea as an afterthought. Trying to sway the male to divulge the information. Divulge any information. He will take anything, any small snippet of who Sin is as a person as opposed to a serial killer. And all the fearful rumours. Rumours he has yet to prove factual.

He didn’t actually see Sin kill those inmates who had attacked him. For all he knows Sin may not have been the one who did the deeds. He was so out of it, he can barely remember what happened. A memory lapse he is grateful for.

Sin hums, cold eyes locking on Izz. Contemplating his answer, “I need blood—”

“What, like a vampire?” It’s blurted out before Izz can think it through—he clamps a hand over his mouth as Sin’s eyes narrow. Opening his fingers to mutter, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t poking fun—a stupid joke—ahh, you were saying?”

Man, great way to get Sin to shut up and never reveal anything about himself.

Sin pivots back to finish up with the toilet. Washing his hands. Brushing his teeth.

Izz’s sure Sin is done with their conversation. Let down he’s wrecked his opportunity to know Sin a little better. His heart sinking with disappointment the longer the silence stretches out, with no answers forthcoming.

Good job . Y ou screwed that up.

Sin’s voice drifts over to Izz. Calm, deep. “Blood is my thing, I’d have to draw blood from you to find my own satisfaction.”

Izz pales, half aware of how fast he stands up. “I . . . umm.”

He isn’t sure why he’s freaking out. Or surprised. It’s not as though he hasn’t heard all the rumours, and he knows everyone fears Sin.

Izz has nowhere to go, Sin is right in front of him, the cell is small. And locked. His mind reeling with the bombshell a serial killer dropped on him. Heart racing so loudly it has its own echo in his skull. He’s sure Sin can hear it.

“Have you heard of knife-play, Gorgeous,” Sin drawls, stepping in closer. A predator moving in for the kill.

Izz shakes his head as he’s backed into the wall, Sin prowling closer until they are chest to chest. Sin has to know he’s freaking out, panicking internally. Too scared to let out his inner scream.

Sin’s lips brush over Izz’s ear, “you’ve enjoyed me biting you . . .” Sin emphasises his words by grazing his teeth over Izz’s neck, causing a shiver to run down his body. “Well. Knife-play holds a similar pleasure . . . I promise you’ll enjoy it . . . I know you will,” Sin drawls.

Izz shudders at the tongue sliding over his throat. His body pressed firmly against the wall. Sin trapping him in place, with no way to break free—

Except he isn’t fighting back. He’s not trying to push Sin away. And he can feel his resolve dwindling by the second as Sin continues his ministrations on Izz’s skin. Kissing and sucking hickies to join the countless bruises.

He wants Sin to press closer. His desires are flaring to life. Being placed in such a dangerous position shouldn’t turn him on as much as it is . . .

Sin grips Izz’s jaw tightly, shoving his face upwards, exposing his throat. “Only I’ll use something slightly sharper, to mark your smooth . . .”

Sin’s other hand runs over Izz’s uncovered body. Reminding him how naked he still is. How vulnerable he is to the male touching him.

“. . . Clear. . .”

Nails faintly digging into his skin, to leave red lines over his abdomen. Sliding . . . Dragging . . . Electrifying the sharp pin pricks of pain surging through his nerves.

“. . . Skin . . .”

A hand cups Izz between his legs. His erection hard and throbbing in the others hold. Sin’s hand lazily moves up and down. A rhythm which does nothing but amp up his desires.

The prospect of being cut . . . Of Sin using a blade on him . . . The thought shouldn’t be leaving his soul an aching mess. Begging wordlessly for Sin to do what he promises.

What is wrong with me?