“Don’t.” It was a quiet warning, yet I flinched as though he’d yelled at me.

“How did you—?”

“Dutch.” He tsked and tilted his head, waiting, and I realized there was no getting around the truth.

“He doesn’t know, not everything. He’s not a threat to you,” I said, trying to convince both of us. When I’d blurted out the fact that Reyes was the son of Satan to Neil on my last visit, I had put the deputy warden’s life in danger. I knew it the moment the words left my mouth. This was different from my telling Cookie or Gemma. Neil was locked in the same place with him day in and day out. It was honestly one of the stupidest things I’d ever done.

“You’re probably right,” he said, and I almost breathed a sigh of relief. “Who would believe him?” He glanced up and looked right into the camera, the smile he still wore dripping with a silent threat.

I felt as though I hardly knew him, which in truth was the case. Our encounters were always brief and to the point. We rarely had heart-to-hearts, and when we did, they always ended the same way. Though to say I regretted for a moment ha**ng s*x with a being forged from the fires of sin would be a bald-faced lie. His body—both corporeally and incorporeally—was like molten steel, his passion insatiable. And when he touched me, when his mouth pressed against mine and his body pushed into me, everything else fell away.

The mere thought caused a visceral tightening between my legs, and I sucked in a soft breath.

He watched me close as though trying to read my thoughts, and I wrapped my fingers around the file I’d brought, tried to calm myself. The file held the transcripts from his trial, a copy of his arrest record, and the contents of his prison jacket, the parts Neil could share with me anyway. The psychological profile had been off-limits. And I know they’d tested his intelligence. What’d they call it? Immeasurable?

I decided to get my questions out of the way before we got to the real reason I was there. Reyes had been physically and mentally abused by the man he’d gone to prison for killing, yet none of that history was brought out during the trial. I wanted to know why. I straightened my shoulders and asked, “Why weren’t the issues of your abuse at the hands of Earl Walker addressed during your trial?”

He stilled. The easy smile disappeared, and a wall of distrust forced its way between us. His posture shifted ever so slightly, turned defensive, the set of his shoulders hostile, and a wary tension thickened the air.

My fingers tightened around the file folder. I needed to know why he’d just sat back and let them send him to prison without so much as lifting a finger in his own defense, in defense of his actions. “They weren’t brought up at all,” I said after a quick gulp of air, charging forward.

He glanced at the file, a malevolent glint in his eyes. “So you know everything about me now?” The idea alone seemed to chafe him.

“Not hardly,” I assured.

He thought a long moment before responding. “But everything you want to know is in that file. All neat. Orderly. Small.”

The power of his gaze siphoned the breath from my lungs, and I had to fight for air under the weight of it. “I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

“The only one in this room underestimating me is you.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up with that statement. “I don’t think so.”

“Gossett didn’t want to leave you alone with me. At least he’s got the sense God gave a walnut.”

I chose not to address his insult. He was angry and taking it out on me. Hadn’t my own father done that very thing only an hour earlier? Men and their inability to cope with their own emotions astounded me. My gaze dropped to his hands, fatigue and stress taking their toll.

He planted an inquisitive stare on me. “You’re not sleeping.”

I blinked in surprise. “I can’t. You’re … there.”

The tension in his shoulders eased ever so slightly and his chin lowered as though ashamed. “I don’t mean to be.”

“I can tell.” His confession stunned me. Though I hid the pain of that statement from my voice, he had to have felt the emotion churning inside me.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just … you’re angry.” I bit back a surge of humiliation and admitted, “You don’t want to be there, to be with me.”

He looked to the side, annoyed. It gave me a chance to study his profile, fierce and noble at once. Even in a prison uniform, he was the most powerful being I’d ever seen, like a beast who lived on strength and instinct alone.

“I’m not angry because I don’t want to be there, Dutch,” he said, his voice soft, hesitant. He pinned me to the spot with the seriousness of his gaze. “I’m angry because I do.”

Before my heart could soar too high with that tidbit, I decided to address his earlier claims. “This morning when you came to me,” I began, my cheeks suddenly burning in embarrassment, “you said that it was all me. That I’m summoning you. That I’ve always summoned you, but that’s impossible.”

After a long pause that had me almost squirming in my chair, he said, “Someday you’ll figure out what you’re capable of. We’ll talk about it then.” Before I could question him on that front, he spoke again. This time his voice was little more than a harsh whisper. “Unbind me.”

I cringed in reaction. I knew it would come to this. I knew it was the reason he wanted to talk in the first place. Why else? Like he would actually just want to see me. I lowered my head. “I can’t unbind you. I don’t know how.”