His Prison Pet

Ivy Walker

They tell me I’m being transferred to a high-risk facility. The cuffs dig in tighter than they need to, and I know the guards do it on purpose. Just another punishment. Another reminder that I don’t belong to myself anymore.

"You’re lucky you’re not dead," one of them mutters like he wants me to hear it.

I don’t answer. I never do. My wrists are raw, my ankles bruised. The jumpsuit scratches everywhere. But it’s the silence—the deliberate kind—that gets to me. Like they’ve already decided what I am: guilty, dangerous, and disposable.

I’m nineteen.

I’ve never even had a speeding ticket.

And now I’m in the back of a prison transport van, shackled to the floor like I’m some kind of monster.

The motion of the road makes the chains rattle. The windows are blacked out, the air thick with sweat and diesel. There are two other prisoners—men—but they’re in separate cages, and I’m alone in mine. One guard in front, one in back. Both armed. Both stone-faced. Neither says a word until the van slows.

“Here,” the driver says.

The other replies, “God help her.”

I stare straight ahead, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me afraid. But I am. It’s cold under my skin. Deep.

The door opens with a groan.

Bright sunlight burns into the van. A gate clangs open. Concrete walls rise around me like cliffs. The air smells like rust and bleach and something feral. A long shadow cuts across the ground—tall, blocky. A sign overhead reads: Blackridge Correctional Facility.

“This isn’t right,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

They shove me forward.

I stumble out, chained, wrists locked to my waist. The sun is too bright. The building in front of me isn’t what I expected. It’s older. Menacing. And all the guards posted outside… they’re men.

I freeze.

“Where are the women?” I ask.

No one answers.

The female intake officer I’d spoken to earlier at the county jail had told me I’d be moved to a “secure location” due to the high profile of my case. She hadn’t said it would be a men’s prison.

Panic climbs up my throat.

“Wait—wait! There’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m nineteen—I’m not even—this is—”

“Too dangerous for gen-pop,” one of the guards says, cutting me off. “Too famous, too fragile, too unlucky. Take your pick.”

“This is a men’s facility!” I twist in the cuffs. “You can’t put me here!”

The other one just shrugs. “We don’t make those decisions, sweetheart. But you can bet someone high up did.”

They march me inside.

The door slams behind me like a vault sealing.

‎⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

‎

The processing room is cold, tiled, humming with fluorescent lights that make everything look worse than it is. There’s a camera in every corner. No one talks to me.

They make me strip. I want to scream. I bite my tongue until it bleeds. I keep my eyes forward while they search me. Every inch. The gloves don’t make it less violating.

Then the buzz of electric clippers.

“Don’t.”

“Policy,” the woman says. She’s the only female I’ve seen here. Her face is tired. Not cruel—just numb. She cuts off my hair. Long dark strands fall to the floor. I want to cry but I don’t. I’ve done enough of that.

Next: a cold shower. Another search. Then they hand me new clothes—gray pants, gray shirt, gray soul.

“You’ll be placed in protective custody,” she tells me. “One-on-one housing.”

I blink. “Alone?”

She hesitates.

“No.”

My stomach turns.

‎⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

‎

The walk to the cell block is long. My shoes squeak. Every step echoes. We pass bars and bunk beds, voices that drop into silence when they see me. I feel them—eyes on my body, on my hips, my chest, my mouth. I keep my chin up.

“Eyes forward,” the guard snaps.

We stop in front of a thick steel door marked C-Wing – Tier 4.

Another guard looks at his clipboard. Nods. Then looks at me with something that’s not quite pity.

“Good luck.”

The door opens. I’m pushed inside.

And then I see him.

He’s sitting on the bed. Shirtless. Black hair and grey eyes. Tattoos crawling over his chest, arms, neck. He looks up slowly, like he knew I was coming. Like he’s been waiting.

Damien Cross.

I know his name before anyone says it.

Because even I’ve heard of him.

Murderer. Enforcer. King of C-Wing.

My new cellmate.

He stands.

And smiles.

Not kind. Not cruel. Just calm. Patient.

Predatory.

“Looks like they sent me a pet,” he says, voice low, rough, amused.

The door locks behind me with a final, brutal click.

And I realize no one’s coming back for me.

I remain still standing there, frozen. My arms are tight around the thin blanket and pillow they gave me, like it’s going to protect me from the heat coming off his body.

The cell isn’t made of bars. It’s a solid metal door with a small reinforced window. Thick walls. Cold corners. No escape.

I hear it then—

Whistles.

From the other cells.

A voice: “Damn, they let a kitten in the cage.”

Another: “Hey pretty girl, you single?”

And laughter. Rough. Low. Too many of them.

I clutch the blanket tighter and press back toward the door, trembling. I don’t look at Damien. I don’t want to see what’s on his face.

But I feel it. The heat of him. The silence that spreads like oil.

He walks slowly.

I take one step back.

He takes one forward.

Then I turn and run for the door, pounding on it with my fists. “No! No, please—please, let me out! He can’t—I’m not supposed to—please!”

I press my face to the window, breath fogging the reinforced glass. The officer who brought me is already gone. I shout again anyway. “COME BACK! PLEASE!”

The window shows only the back of the corridor. I see movement on the other side of the locked control door—an officer turns, keys jingling.

He glances at me through the glass.

And then he opens the outer door and walks away.

Leaves me here.

Alone.

With him.

I spin around, choking on my breath—and he’s there.

Behind me.

Caging me.

His arms on either side of my head, palms pressed to the metal just beside my face. His chest doesn’t touch mine—but it might as well.

He leans in, breath brushing my neck.

“That door doesn’t open for you anymore,” he says quietly. “Not unless I say it does.”

I can’t breathe.

“You should get used to that.”

He smells like iron. Ink. Heat.

I squeeze the pillow between us like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

His voice drops lower. “You’ll learn, Ivy. How to sleep in my bed. How to kneel when I say. How to eat when I let you.”

I shake my head, barely able to whisper. “No.”

He laughs once. Softly.

“You can say no for now. It won’t stop what’s coming.”

I shut my eyes.

He doesn’t touch me. Not yet.

But he stays right there. Breathing against my skin. Until the blanket in my arms starts to shake—and I realize it’s me.

Trembling.

‎”How do you know my name?” I manage, throat tight.

‎He doesn’t answer. A slow, private smile ghosts across his mouth—like the question itself entertains him.

‎Instead, he tips his head. “Do you know mine?”‎

‎I swallow hard. “Damien… Cross.”‎

“Good girl.” The praise is soft, frighteningly gentle.‎

‎He straightens, steps back half a pace, and points at the bed. “Sit. Get comfortable.”‎

‎I glance at the bed, then back at him.‎

‎”We don’t have all night,” he adds—still calm, still patient, but firmer now. “And believe me, you’ll want to start conserving your energy.”‎

‎Reluctantly, I edge to the bed and perch on the very corner, clutching the blanket like a shield.‎

‎He watches every movement, eyes half‑lidded, assessing, pleased.‎

‎“That’s better,” he murmurs. “First lesson: you sit when I tell you to. Second—” his gaze flicks to the flimsy pillow in my lap—”you won’t need that for long.”‎

‎I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. The room feels smaller than ever. His shadow seems to fill it.

‎He moves to the cell door, tests the handle—just to show me it’s locked—then turns back, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable.‎

‎”Rest while you can, Ivy,” he says, voice a dark promise. “Tomorrow we begin.”

‎