Chapter 3 – His Reach

Amara

The cold water bites at my skin, each drop needling against me like a punishment I somehow deserve. I stand there, head bowed, letting it soak my hair and wash away the thoughts I can’t seem to silence. His face flashes behind my eyelids — the sharp lines, the piercing eyes, the quiet power he carries in every glance.

The Warden.

Stop it, Amara. You can’t be thinking about him. Not like that.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the sides of the metal shower stall until my knuckles ache. He’s off-limits. A man like him doesn’t look twice at someone like me — not outside these walls, and especially not inside them.

Even if fate had thrown us together in another life — no cells, no bars, no past — it wouldn’t matter. Because even out there, he’d still be a man I couldn’t have. Not with the chains that already bind me. Not with the ghost of him still haunting every inch of my mind.

I shut off the water and shiver as silence fills the stall. Droplets slide down my spine, pooling at my feet. I breathe in, sharp and shaky, then grab the rough towel from the hook.

Focus. Breakfast will be over soon.

By the time I step into the cafeteria line, the room buzzes with chatter. Laughter. Whispered gossip. None of it for me. I’m a shadow among them — the outsider they haven’t decided how to handle yet. My presence shifts the air, draws glances, but no invitations.

It’s high school all over again. Only here, detention lasts a year and the mean girls have sharpened their nails into weapons.

I nod a quiet thank-you to the woman behind the counter and clutch my tray like a shield. My eyes dart across the room — clusters of women seated at tables, their own little tribes, each one claimed territory.

There — a corner table. Empty.

I make my move before anyone else can. Mission accomplished. I drop onto the hard bench, my tray clattering.

The food looks like something scraped off a shoe — gray, unrecognizable, steaming faintly as if daring me to try it. I poke at the mush with my fork, wrinkling my nose.

I miss real food. Food that tastes like care, not punishment. Food that reminds me of warmth, of home — whatever that means anymore.

I lift the cup of black coffee and take a sip, grimacing. Bitter. Acidic. But it’s something.

And then — a prickle runs down my neck. That feeling again. Eyes.

I scan the room, heart ticking faster. Guards chatting near the exit. A group of women laughing, not even looking my way.

And then I find him.

The Warden.

He stands above, on the upper railing, hands clasped behind his back, watching. Watching me.

My breath catches. He doesn’t look away. His gaze pins me in place — firm, unyielding. Like he’s reading me, page by page, peeling back layers I didn’t even know were exposed.

I shift in my seat, rubbing my arm, pretending to focus on my tray. The weight of his stare crawls across my skin. Why is he looking at me like that? What does he see?

Before I can decide whether to hold his gaze or flee from it, the bell splits the air.

Time’s up.

Chairs scrape, trays clatter, voices rise and fall as the women file into lines, moving toward their assignments. I hang back, waiting. No work duty yet — not for me. The warden hasn’t placed me anywhere. So it’s back to my cell. Back to the quiet.

Back to the thoughts.

I glance up again, half expecting to find him still there — but the railing is empty. Gone. Like smoke.

Who is this man?

I dump my tray, the sound echoing in the emptying cafeteria. The hallways stretch long and sterile, my footsteps tapping against the concrete. I trace my fingers along the rough paint on the wall — small grooves, chips, imperfections that give the place texture. It’s a strange comfort.

In here, you take what you can get.

By the time I reach my cell, the corridor has gone still. Too still. My stomach twists. There’s always someone stationed here — a guard, a presence. But not today.

Something’s off.

I step through the doorway and stop cold.

A single envelope lies on my bed.

No stamps. No markings. Just white paper against gray sheets.

My pulse spikes.

It’s not mail time. It’s not even supposed to be possible.

My gaze darts to the hall again — empty. Not a sound.

I swallow hard and inch closer, like the letter might leap off the bed if I move too fast. My fingertips brush the paper. It’s cool. Thin. Trembling slightly in my hand.

This is ridiculous, I scold myself. It’s just a letter.

But dread curls through me anyway.

I slide a finger under the flap, tearing it open.

The handwriting hits me like a blow — neat, deliberate, unmistakable.

"Hello, little one.

You’re exactly where I want you.

I told you there would be punishment for running.

And more importantly, for telling me no.

See you soon."

The words blur as the blood drains from my face.

My knees buckle. I sink onto the bed, letter trembling in my hands. My breath stutters, catches, breaks.

He found me.

He always finds me.

Even here — behind locked doors, under watch, in a place meant to keep people like him out — he’s still inside. His reach knows no walls, no guards, no distance.

If he can slip a letter into my cell, he can do anything.

I stare at the ink, my heart hammering. The room tilts, spins. You’re exactly where I want you.

The words echo through me, twisting tight around my chest.

No matter how far I run, he’ll find me. No matter how deep they bury me, he’ll dig me up.

My vision blurs. The letter crumples in my fists.

I thought I was trapped before. But now — now I know the truth.

There’s no cage strong enough to hold a ghost.

And Killain… he’s everywhere.