Chapter two

The next morning, Elena stood outside the iron gates of Saint Ridge Penitentiary. The sky was a cold slate gray, clouds hanging low like they, too, disapproved of her choice.

The guard at the entrance looked her over once, twice.

“ID,” he grunted.

She handed it over, along with a printed copy of her approval letter. He radioed someone, then waved her through with a buzz and a metallic groan as the gate slid open.

The inner courtyard was bleak concrete, barbed wire, and armed watchtowers. A far cry from her polished campus. A correctional officer escorted her through security, confiscating her phone and bag, then handed her a visitor badge.

“Follow me,” he said curtly.

They passed endless rows of thick steel doors, each one marked with a number. The further they walked, the quieter it became. The walls were painted in soulless gray, and the flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like wasps.

“This is your interview room,” the guard said, pointing to a door near the end of the hall.

Elena adjusted the collar of her black coat and stepped forward, badge in hand. Her heartbeat pounded beneath her ribs like war drums. She hadn’t slept much. Her thoughts had circled like vultures all night, feeding off nerves and doubt.

After two security checkpoints, a metal detector, and a body scan that left her cold and irritated, she was finally led through a narrow hallway deep within the prison’s interior. The walls closed in around her, lined with peeling paint and flickering lights. The air smelled like bleach and something older, something rotten.

“Interview Room 4,” he said, unlocking it. “You’ve got exactly an hour. No cameras during your sessions, You’ll have a panic button on the table. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

Elena nodded once. Her fingers were clenched around her folder so tightly, the edges were crumpled.

The door opened with a loud mechanical groan.

The room was bare, cold, unforgiving. One bolted chair. One loose. A metal table in between. A faint buzzing from the ceiling light.

Cain Maddox sat in the far chair, one wrist shackled to the table by a thick chain. His other hand was relaxed in his lap. He wore the standard orange prison uniform, but it didn’t diminish his presence; it only made him look more dangerous and hot.

He didn’t rise. Didn’t speak.

He just looked at her.

And in that moment, Elena felt the air shift.

His eyes were like winter storms gray, piercing, impossibly still. There was no warmth in them. No curiosity. Just an eerie calm, like he was already ten steps ahead of her.

She stepped inside slowly and shut the door behind her.

“Mr. Maddox,” she said evenly. “I’m Elena Hart. I’ll be conducting your psychological profile for the next twelve weeks.”

He tilted his head, just slightly.

“Have a seat,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and maddeningly unbothered. “Let’s get this over with.”

She moved to the chair and sat, opening her folder without looking up. She needed to regain control. Set the tone. Show him she wasn’t intimidated.

But the silence was suffocating.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t blink. He just watched her.

“Before we begin, I want to make it clear that this is an academic project,” she said, keeping her tone clinical. “You can choose not to answer anything. You can also request to stop at any point.”

Cain leaned forward a little. Just enough for the light to catch on the angles of his face sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, a scar that traced the corner of his right brow.

“Is that your opening line for all the men you study?” he asked, one brow arching.

She froze.

A smirk tugged at his lips. It wasn’t friendly. It was something darker, predatory.

“You’ve studied me, haven’t you?” he asked. “Read my file. Gone over the crime scene photos. Maybe imagined how I did it.”

Elena set her pen down slowly. “This isn’t about the murder. It’s about you.”

“I am the murderer.”

Silence settled between them, thick and heated. She should’ve been frightened, but oddly, she wasn’t. Her pulse was racing, yes, but there was something magnetic about him. Something that made it hard to look away.

“How did you kill him?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Cain’s smirk vanished. A long pause.

Then, slowly, he spoke. “With my hands. I wanted to feel it. Every inch of pain. Every bone is breaking. It wasn’t justice, it was vengeance.”

Elena’s throat tightened. Her pen hovered over the page.

“But that’s not in the file,” she said.

“Because I didn’t tell them. I’m telling you.”

“Why?”

Cain leaned back, eyes still on hers. “Because you’re not afraid of me yet. And I want to see the moment that changes.”

Her stomach fluttered and not just in fear.

She hated herself for it, but she was drawn to the danger in him. The way he spoke, like he didn’t care who he scared or intimidated, people thought. It wasn’t bravado. It was something real. Unapologetic.

“Have you had many visitors?” she asked, trying to pull the conversation back to neutral ground.

“No.”

“Why did you agree to see me?”

His gaze dropped to her hands, then slowly returned to her face.

“I was curious.”

Elena swallowed. “About what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he asked, “Are you always this bold, Elena Hart? Or is it just the thrill of caging a monster?”

She couldn’t stop the flush that crept up her neck.

“Let’s talk about your childhood,” she said, her voice tightening. “You were raised in foster care after your parents died in a car accident when you were six. Multiple homes. Multiple suspensions. But your record goes clean at seventeen. Why?”

Cain was quiet.

Then he said, “Because I met her.”

Elena’s pen paused. “Your sister.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He looked away for the first time.

“She made me want to be good. To be… better. She was light, and I was something crawling in the dark. She didn’t care. She loved me anyway.”

Elena waited, giving him space.

“She was all I had,” he added quietly. “And he took her from me.”

Their eyes met again, and this time, something cracked. A flicker of pain. Real, raw, and unhidden.

Elena’s throat went dry.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Cain studied her, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t pity me. You don’t know what I did. What I became.”

“No,” she replied. “But I want to.”

He leaned forward, the chain on his wrist clicking softly.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That curiosity of yours might get you in trouble.”

Elena didn’t flinch.

“Then we’ll be in trouble together.”

Cain smiled, and for the first time, it wasn’t cruel.

It was dangerous.