Sins of the Mother: A Paranormal Prison Romance (Sinfully Sacrificed Book 2)

by Mary E. Twomey

  He rubs the nape of his neck. “Yes, I was a rather emotional child when I got passionate about something. You’re really a vegetarian?” When I nod, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Me, too.”

  It’s an insignificant detail, most of the time not worth mentioning. I’m not a terribly preachy vegetarian, yet as we stare at each other, something heavy passes between us.

  Paxton’s mouth opens, but whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the loudspeaker, announcing that it’s lights out in five minutes.

  “Tired,” I manage, my throat croaking. I don’t even care that I look ridiculous as I turn and crawl into Gray’s bed. I dart under the covers, hiding like a child from the things I don’t understand.

  Luckily, Paxton’s a gentleman, and he doesn’t call me out on my cowardice.

  I can hear Charlotte’s muffled coo. “We can wait a couple days, but not much longer.” Her mattress creaks. “The path is clear. If we want to be set free, Arly has to unlock your cuffs.”

  “Doing that could hurt anyone I look at for more than a few seconds. I’m not trying to be difficult; I’m just not sure your vision has all the facts.”

  Charlotte is resolute. “This is the way. It’s the only way. I’ve learned that battling the path only makes destiny more determined. It’s more dangerous to resist than it is to give in.”

  Whatever Paxton says before he pulls himself up to his bunk is lost, thanks to the covers muffling his mumbling.

  I’m grateful that Gray doesn’t make me talk about it all when he slides into the bed beside me, shirtless with his bottoms on. I prefer him in only his underwear, but since we got the new cellmate, he’s been sleeping shirtless but with his jumpsuit bottoms on.

  The light is still shining overhead, but my eyes are shut tight, pretending sleep in hopes it finds me soon.

  “Breathe through it,” Gray whispers as he moves my hand to rest in its usual position—atop his chest. He always knows what to say when I have no words. “It’s going to be alright.”

  “How?” I shouldn’t argue, but I can’t help it. I can’t see the bright future Charlotte’s so certain of. I see nothing. This sleepover Paxton described didn’t happen. Or if it did, my mind has pushed it out for reasons I can’t begin to understand.

  Gray doesn’t answer right away. He waits until I’m curled up to his side, my leg draped over his thigh, my head on his shoulder. “It’s not your job to work out how. That’s my job tonight.” His hand trails over my arm, comforting my nerves and letting each one of them know he’s strong enough to settle my anxiety.

  Yet even as the light goes out and floods us in darkness, I can feel Paxton’s eyes on me. A thousand unspoken questions fill the air between us.

  I wish I had answers.

  The New Guy

  Paxton

  It’s been two days since Arlanna’s made eye contact. I’m not sure if she’s afraid of me, or if she’s just been groomed for distance all too well.

  I don’t have sewing detail with my cellmates. Instead, I stamp license plates, which I’m still wretched at. No matter how hard I concentrate, my embossing always come out crooked. My assignments have to be redone several times before anything’s useable.

  Though I’m clearly the weakest link in the assembly line, everyone picks up my slack without holding a grudge. I know it’s because of my title, but I’m grateful for the grace. I’ve had a headache since I got here; the lights are so bright.

  “Let me get that for you, Prince Paxton,” the person beside me offers when I drop the metal plate again. She says it with a chipper grin that makes it look like her joy in life is to clean up after my clumsy self.

  “I got it.” I bend over at the same time she does, and we accidentally clonk our foreheads together. I’m momentarily dazed, but my hands go to her, steadying her wobbling to make sure she’s alright. “Bollocks. I’m sorry. What was your name?”

  “Jemma. Jemma May Brown.” Her reply is breathless. She gazes at me as if we’ve had a meet-cute made for the history books. “I was named after my grandmother.”

  “Right. Sorry about that, Miss Brown. I keep telling myself I’ll get better at this, but it seems that’s a fool’s promise.”

  “It’s no trouble. It’s more crowded in here than usual. We’re all a little clumsy. So many switched over from sewing detail this week; there’s not much elbow room.”

  I stand, helping her up but releasing her quickly. “Why is that? Has there been a high demand for license plates?”

  She giggles like she’s five, though she’s clearly twenty years past that. “It’s because they put you here. Everyone wants to be near you.” She steps so close; I can feel her breath on my chest. “Not a bad way to up production, having you around.”

  I clear my throat and go back to the assembly line, feeling stupid. It’s like there’s a spotlight being shone on my every mistake. I thought I’d escaped that life the second I stepped into Prigham’s, but it’s worse here. I’m hidden from cameras, sure, but I also can’t get away from people in here. Everything I do is watched, and I cannot get a minute to myself.

  I’m fairly certain I’ve contributed zero actual usable products by the end of our shift, though I’m working as hard as I can. I can only hope everyone was rubbish at the task when they first started out, too.

  The lunch line is long, and my stomach’s been growling for about an hour. The food they feed us isn’t enough for me, especially when the vegetarian option is just to ignore the meat on my tray.

  “Prince Paxton, we saved you a seat over there.”

  “You don’t want to sit there. Over here. At our table, none of the women will be fawning over you,” a guy to my right says.

  I’m basically corralled, as I’ve been every meal thus far, making my way to whatever table is nearest, because I’m too hungry to bother choosing one table over the other.

  I don’t have anything to add to their conversations. Aside from a couple nights ago in our cell, I’m not usually much of a sharer. Hazards of the job, I guess. Nearly everything is classified, and what isn’t are details I always worry will be used against me, or will end up in the gossip rags. For once, I want to be able to eat a meal without it being dissected for the public.

  Except about five hundred people watch me eat during every meal.

  A sharp noise of distress hits my ears, so I turn without answering either of the offers.

  It’s her—the woman I’m tethered to, and might never be able to ignore.

  “Arlanna? Hey!” My tray is abandoned at the nearest table as I jog toward the fray, which consists of a man and a woman trying to wrestle Arlanna’s lunch tray from her stubborn grip near the salad bar. Indignation roils through me at anyone making her defend her food like a wild animal. “Leave her alone!”

  The shifter is at my heels, his own tray forgotten.

  The two misanthropes cower when he approaches, but they wear apologetic looks when I fix them with my glare.

  I remind myself that my disapproving look cannot harm them, thanks to my magic-muting cuffs.

  My chest puffs. “Is there a reason you’re ruining everyone’s meal with this? Arlanna, are you alright, darlyss?”

  The pet name slips out before I can remind myself that might not be entirely appropriate.

  Luckily, Arlanna’s too frustrated from the fight to register my affection for her.

  The woman points at Arlanna in accusation, her face red either from the struggle or because too many people are stopping their meals to listen in. It’s the quietest I’ve ever heard the cafeteria so far.

  She rolls her shoulders back, snarling in Arlanna’s direction. “You have no idea how many of us are in here because of her. It’s her family. Her four-thousand-dollar stilettos. Her designer wardrobe. Her own personal screwable bodyguard. It’s the composed smile she has for the papers while her family ruins the world.” She huffs a strand of black hair from her face, her shrill voice making my headache that much worse. “Now that she�
��s in here, away from all that privilege? I don’t plan on treating her like she deserves the silver spoon her father probably stole.”

  I take a step back, not expecting so much venom in one response. “Bollocks, that’s a lot.” I turn to Arlanna, whose chin is raised like she’s daring the world to break her down. “How long have they been treating you like this?”

  Gray answers for Arlanna when she refuses to speak. I can tell she’s on the verge of exposing raw emotion, and words might be a dangerous venture. “Since the first day she got here. It’s all we can do to make sure she gets a solid meal.”

  Cassia and Charlotte trot over, wearing matching looks of exasperation. “Hey, you’re not wearing your meal. Progress.” Cassia glares at the woman in the wrong and stares her down. Though I’ve never known Cassia to be anything but mellow, her sneer as she snatches an orange off the woman’s tray is nothing short of intimidating. “Idiot tax. I’m sure you understand.” Then she jerks her chin toward Arlanna, but keeps a calculating eye on the offenders. “Go sit down, honey,” she says to Arlanna. “Gray, escort our girl to our table?”

  The shifter’s arm is already curved around Arlanna’s waist, sheltering her and giving light to the vulnerability we’ve both been taught never to expose. For the entire showdown, the two of them have been remarkably quiet, letting the world be what it is, without sacrificing themselves for their audience.

  “Shifter whore!” the man who was wrestling her tray calls after her, without even bothering to faux-whisper or work in a fake cough to cover his rudeness.

  Arlanna shudders into Gray’s side, but neither of them speak in their defense. It’s like the slur whips her across the shoulders, visibly wounding her.

  I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the shifter’s biggest fan, though that has more to do with his arm constantly around Arlanna, giving no one else a chance. But other than my selfish, childish non-reason, he’s the only bloke in here who’s been what I’ve always imagined a guy friend could be, if I’d had a normal life. He’s unimpressed by me, not fawning and not angry. Just… normal.

  “Because she’s got some bloke’s arm around her, she’s automatically a whore?” I say to the man, not bothering to lower my voice. I hope they all hear me and feel stupid for ganging up on Arlanna, who deserves far better than this.

  Charlotte trots off toward their table, but Cassia stands beside me, her arms folded over her chest. “Oh, yeah. Because Gray can’t be with a woman without turning her all whorish. What a wild life they lead, eating lunch together quietly.” Then her voice raises to fill the stunned cafeteria. “Every woman in here owes a debt of gratitude to Grayson Knight.” She fixes her cold gaze on the nearest guard, defiance shining through.

  I’m clearly missing something. No woman except for Arlanna, Charlotte and Cassia venture near the shifter. “What do you mean?”

  She doesn’t lower her voice, but revels in the attention that comes when you dare stand against the rushing river of the mindless masses. “Every woman is allotted twelve feminine products per month.” She shrugs as my cheeks pink. “It’s not enough. Gray moves extra bricks, never taking a day off the job, and uses his extra money to buy the women here extra products, so we have enough.”

  “Women on the outside have to pay money to buy feminine products,” I point out, but then immediately wish I hadn’t. My neck shrinks under Cassia’s glare.

  “That’s true,” she seethes. “But one hour of work could buy enough products for the entire month. In here, we’re working twenty-one hours to get what we need.”

  I quickly realize that I am not qualified to say anything even remotely intelligent about this, except that Gray is a far better man than most. I can only admit my ignorance while fighting to keep my face composed. “I didn’t know that was a problem in here.”

  Cassia’s jaw is stern with fury. “It’s how they keep the women’s noses to the grind. We can’t afford to take a day off. Then the jobs here aren’t classified as slavery, because we elect to work. But if we don’t work from sun up until sun down for pennies an hour, then we can’t afford to take care of our own bodies.”

  It’s then I realize that every woman in the cafeteria is nodding with a solemn look about them. They may not like shifters, but they hate the stilted system enough to ask favors of Gray—the one man in hundreds who can handle talking about a woman’s period.

  I lower my voice so I’m not shouting, but I know everyone can still hear me. “I can help with that. It shouldn’t all be on Gray.” Then I see the added level of disrespect Cassia is indignant about. “You’re telling me Gray has been busting his backside to help take care of the women in here, yet he’s not allowed to be with Arlanna? You all respect him that little? You’d use him but treat him like he’s not a person who deserves a little happiness?”

  Almost as one, all the necks in the cafeteria shrink.

  I doubt anything will change from Cassia’s speech or my scolding, but at least I can see the depth of how dysfunctional things actually are in here.

  “For the record,” I say to the entirety of the lunch room, even though I’m looking at the two who accosted Arlanna. They’re still standing stupidly in front of us. Everyone else is splintering off in whispers, but they’re still listening in. “Arlanna is one of my closest friends.”

  Sadly true. I wasn’t permitted near other children after I put Mum in the hospital.

  My chin raises as I collect all the stares and keep them captive so everyone hears exactly what they need to. “I’ve known every man she’s ever dated.”

  Also true, because I’ve read our detective’s reports on her, so I know she’s never had a boyfriend on the outside.

  Cassia chimes in, fixing the man who tried to wrestle Arlanna’s tray from her with a cruel, “If you think Arly’s a whore, then what does that make your girlfriend?” Then she covers her mouth like she’s repentant for saying something foul, when we all know she’s not. “Oops. Every woman here’s too smart to hook their wagon to you. No one likes a fool jackass.”

  His face turns red as he works out an oh-so-clever “All that is coming from a psychotic loser.”

  Cassia holds her stomach and mimes laughing at what I guess he considers a dig. Whatever he’s at Prigham’s for, his parents clearly didn’t do much work to hide their idiocy from their son, who seems to have picked up on the craft.

  I size up the man. “What are you in here for?”

  This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. About two dozen people hiss their disapproval, and even Cassia balks at me. She grabs my elbow and turns me toward Arlanna, Charlotte and the shifter and gives me a light shove. “I’ll grab your food, so you have something to put in your mouth other than your foot.”

  Proper Prison Etiquette

  Paxton

  My legs move robotically through the throngs of inmates who all watch me as if they aren’t quite sure if they’re supposed to bow or lecture me on proper Prigham’s exchanges.

  I plop down between Charlotte and Arlanna, rubbing my temples. Curse this blasted headache. “Apparently I missed the etiquette portion of acclimation. We’re not supposed to ask what people are serving time for?”

  Charlotte chews on her lower lip, and I can tell she’s biting back a snigger.

  Arlanna meets my eyes with that same veil of uncertainty, as if she doesn’t mind me this near, but knows Sloan wouldn’t allow it. Still, she remains seated and doesn’t leave the table, so I guess that’s a plus. “Since no one here actually committed any crimes, it’s a sore subject all the way around. Sort of like asking to examine a person’s butt crack before you’ve even shaken their hand.”

  A wry grin crosses my face. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve found all day. “You’re saying ‘butt crack’ to me? Over lunch like this, out in the open for anyone to overhear?”

  Arlanna chuckles, covering her mouth. “I guess I am. Sorry, it’s just that I made the same mistake early on. Luckily, I was just around this lot, so t
he damage was contained to these three understanding friends.”

  Arlanna blinks at me, or maybe she bats her eyelashes; I can’t tell. Either way, I can barely breathe through my swirling attraction.

  She munches on a carrot. Even that small action is alluring. “But thank you for sticking up for us. You didn’t need to do that.”

  The shifter casts me a sidelong glance. “Arly keeps hoping they’ll get bored of us and move on, but all guns seem to be aimed at her since she got here. I suggested we hide our relationship, but…”

  Arlanna stiffens, that stubborn streak flaring in a way that I can’t help but find enticing. “But that is ridiculous. I’m not going to be someone in secret that I’m not in public. I’m not ashamed of you, Grayson Knight. I’m happy for once, considering everything. I’m not about to sell myself out for a bunch of people who would just find another reason to hate me.”

  Gray pecks her lips, and my stomach tightens. Even as Cass plops my tray down in front of me, I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.

  The shifter’s arm moves under the table, and I’m guessing his hand is on her knee. It better only be on her knee. “Thanks, honey. I was going to say that I suggested we hide our relationship, but they’re so aggressive toward her, sometimes me being near is the only thing that keeps them from knocking her around. Jeers are nothing to them throwing her food on the floor, or outright taking swings at her.”

  Now I’m really not hungry. “Are you having a laugh?”

  Cassia snorts. “Have you really not seen anyone go after Arly until now?”

  “I guess not. This place is a little overwhelming. I haven’t been as observant as I should, apparently. What can I do, Arlanna?”

  “Just be you,” Arlanna answers succinctly. “It’s your one chance, Paxton. Your guards aren’t in here to control your every move. Neither is your father. Take this year and breathe. One of us should.”