Chapter 30: Art Class
The rec yard was a cage within a cage, a square of cracked asphalt under a taut grid of razor wire. The sky above was a flat, unforgiving gray, the kind that promised neither rain nor sun, just an eternal, muted afternoon. The air smelled of wet concrete, stale cigarette smoke, and the faint, coppery tang of blood from a fight that had been hastily broken up near the weight benches an hour before.
Dominic sat on a low concrete bench, his back against the cold wall, one arm stretched out along the top. He was a statue of contained power, watching the controlled chaos of the yard with half-lidded eyes. The ink that swirled over his knuckles, crawled up his neck, and peeked from the collar of his standard-issue gray shirt was a history of violence, allegiance, and loss. Today, it was also festooned with pink hearts, a wobbly green dinosaur, and a large, sunshine-yellow flower whose petals encroached on the snarling tiger’s face on his bicep.
Angel was cross-legged on the ground at his feet, a riot of platinum curls tied back with a piece of frayed string. He was utterly absorbed, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. In his hands was a neon orange scented marker—‘Tropical Punch’—and he was carefully outlining the wings of a large, grim reaper tattooed across Dominic’s forearm.
“Hold still, Daddy,” Angel murmured, his soft voice almost lost in the yard’s din of shouts, the clank of iron weights, and the rhythm of a basketball echoing off the high walls.
“I am holding still,” Dominic rumbled, not moving a muscle. His other hand rested on top of Angel’s head, a heavy, warm weight. His thumb absently stroked the crown of his hair.
Brick stood nearby, a silent, broad-shouldered sentinel. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression as readable as granite. Only a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement as he watched a hulking Alpha from C-block walk past, do a double-take at the sight of the Reaper covered in child’s drawings, and quickly look away, pretending he’d seen nothing.
“The flower needs a friend,” Angel decided, sitting back to assess his work. He rooted through the small pile of markers beside him. “The green one smells like apples. It’s a good smell. It should be… a caterpillar.”
From another bench a few feet away, where Silas ‘Crusher’ Wooledge was methodically cleaning under his fingernails with a filed-down toothbrush handle, a low grunt emitted. “Caterpillar’s gonna get eaten by that tiger, kid. Nature’s way.”
Angel looked over, his dark blue eyes wide. “But the tiger is Daddy’s. Daddy’s tiger wouldn’t eat a friendly caterpillar. It would protect it.”
Silas’s battered face didn’t change, but his flat, calm eyes shifted to Dominic. “You hear that? Your tiger’s gone soft.”
“My tiger,” Dominic said, his voice a low vibration that Angel felt through the concrete, “does what I tell it to. And I’m telling it to tolerate the goddamn caterpillar.”
Spark materialized then, dropping onto the bench next to Silas with the kinetic energy of a thrown firecracker. His blond hair was a mess, his eyes bright with undisclosed mischief. “Whoa. Art therapy, Reap? Looks… fragrant.” He sniffed the air dramatically. “I’m getting… grape? And maybe… regret?”
“It’s berry blast and ocean breeze,” Angel corrected him cheerfully, uncapping a blue marker. “The regret is probably you, Jaxon.”
Spark’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Dominic, then back at Angel. “Did he just… sass me? Dom, your kid’s getting a mouth on him.”
“He learns from the best,” Dominic said dryly. His dark eyes flicked to Spark. “What’s buzzing in your hive, Spark? You look like you’re about to short-circuit.”
“Nothing, nothing,” Spark said, but he was practically vibrating. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Heard a fun rumor. Library cart’s getting a new shipment. Might include some… historical periodicals. Illustrated historical periodicals.”
Doc, who had been quietly observing from the other side of Dominic, a well-worn medical journal open on his knee, sighed without looking up. “By ‘illustrated historical periodicals,’ he means pornography, Dominic. He’s planning a heist for nudie mags.”
“It’s not a heist, it’s a strategic acquisition,” Spark argued. “Cultural enrichment. Angel, you want some picture books? For your artistic development?”
Angel was carefully drawing little blue waves around the reaper’s scythe. “I have my markers. They’re better. They smell.”
“See? The child has taste.” Spark spread his hands. “Anyway, point is, the library trustee is a Beta in D-block who owes Ghost a favor. Ghost says it’s a fluid situation.” He nodded toward the perimeter, where Rafael ‘Ghost’ Villareal leaned against the fence, seemingly watching a cloud. He was the still point in the chaotic yard, absorbing information.
“A fluid situation I want no part of,” Dominic stated. “You get caught boosting smut, you’re on your own. I’m not explaining to the warden why my crew is regressing to puberty.”
“Your crew is currently being used as a coloring book,” Spark pointed out, grinning.
“And your face is currently being used as a target for my fist,” Dominic replied, without heat. “Behave.”
Angel, finishing his waves, sat back again. He frowned at Dominic’s arm, then up at his face. “Daddy.”
“Yes, cuore mio.”
“The man on your arm. The grim reaper. He looks lonely. He needs a friend, too.”
Dominic looked down at the stark, professionally-inked image of the Death on his forearm. It was a piece from another lifetime, a statement of profession and philosophy. “Reapers don’t have friends, angelo. That’s the point.”
“Everybody needs a friend,” Angel insisted, his tone dipping into that soft, stubborn territory that meant a bratty moment was brewing. “Maybe… a puppy. A little black puppy. With a waggy tail. Right here.” He pointed to a blank patch of skin near the reaper’s feet.
A low, choking sound came from Brick. He’d turned it into a cough.
Dominic closed his eyes for a second, a man seeking patience. “A puppy.”
“A smiling puppy,” Angel clarified, reaching for the black marker. “I can make it smiling. It will cheer him up.”
“The embodiment of eternal darkness does not require cheering up,” Doc intoned, turning a page. “Clinically, it’s unlikely to experience mammalian emotions.”
“Doc’s right,” Dominic said, opening his eyes and fixing Angel with a look. “No puppy.”
Angel’s lower lip crept out. It was a magnificent, practiced pout. His eyes grew instantly shiny. “But… he’s all alone. He just takes and takes. He should have something that loves him. Just a little puppy. Please, Daddy?”
It was a manipulation. A transparent, obvious, pathetic manipulation. Dominic knew it. Every man within earshot knew it. It was also, undeniably, effective.
Silas stopped cleaning his nails. “For Christ’s sake, Dom. Give the reaper a damn dog. It’s not gonna kill you.”
“It’s my skin, Crusher.”
“And it’s his markers,” Silas countered, his flat gaze unwavering. “Kid spent his whole annual candy budget on ’em. Least you can do is let him accessorize your memento mori.”
Spark was openly grinning now. “I’m with the tiny terrorist on this one. Reaper needs a sidekick. Make it a three-legged puppy. More character.”
Dominic looked from Angel’s brimming eyes to Silas’s implacable stare, to Spark’s glee, to Brick’s stone-faced silence that somehow raduded agreement. He exhaled, a long, slow stream of air that spoke of surrendered dignity. “Fine.”
The word was barely out before Angel’s face transformed, the tears vanishing as if by magic, replaced by a beatific smile. “Thank you, Daddy!” He scrambled forward, black marker poised.
“A small puppy,” Dominic stipulated, his voice a warning. “Discreet. And if you make it look like a rat, I’m melting down all your markers into a puddle of regret.”
Angel was already drawing, his small hand moving with surprising certainty. He created a small, blob-like shape with four stick legs, a curlicue tail, and two dots for eyes. Above it, he carefully drew a smiling line. It looked less like a canine and more like a Rorschach test, but the intent was clear.
“There,” Angel said, blowing on the ink gently. “His name is Mr. Snuffles.”
The yard seemed to hold its breath for a split second. Then Spark lost it, a loud, barking laugh escaping him before he clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking. Silas’s lips twitched. Brick turned his head away, his back vibrating slightly.
Dominic looked down at the crooked, smiling blotch now forever associating with the grim reaper on his arm. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, a deep, rolling chuckle started in his chest and escaped. It was a rich, unfamiliar sound that drew glances from across the yard. He shook his head, the laughter softening into a warm, resigned sigh. He cupped Angel’s cheek, his thumb stroking the apple of it. “Mr. Snuffles, huh?”
“He’s a good puppy,” Angel said, leaning into the touch, his mission accomplished. He capped the black marker with a satisfied click. “He’ll be a good friend.”
“I’m sure he will,” Dominic murmured. He let his hand fall to Angel’s neck, his fingers brushing the claiming bite scar, a familiar, soothing gesture for them both.
Ghost detached himself from the fence and glided over, soundless. He stood beside Doc, his dark eyes scanning the yard before settling on Dominic’s newly adorned arm. His expression, as always, was unreadable. “The library cart,” he said, his voice quiet and even. “The situation has solidified. The trustee is amenable. The acquisition is scheduled for Thursday after laundry detail.”
Spark pumped a fist silently. “Yes. Cultural enlightenment awaits.”
“The only thing awaiting you is disciplinary segregation if you’re clumsy,” Doc said, closing his journal. “But I’ve stocked up on antiseptic. Just in case.”
“You’re all a bad influence,” Dominic said, but there was no real rebuke in it. This was his world. This bizarre, stunted, brutal family. A mafia boss, a cannibal child, a strangler, a medic, a lunatic tinkerer, a silent ghost, and a solid wall of a man. All color outside the lines in their own ways.
Angel began gathering his markers, carefully organizing them by color in the cardboard box they came in. His movements were neat, reverent. These were his treasures. “Daddy, can I draw on Brick next? He has lots of space.” He pointed to Brick’s thick, tattooed forearms.
Brick’s stoic expression finally cracked into something resembling alarm. He took a subtle step back.
“No,” Dominic said, the Alpha command gently firm. “Brick’s ink is perfect. You’ve… blessed mine. That’s enough for one day.”
Angel pouted again, but it was half-hearted. He was too pleased with his work. He hugged the marker box to his chest. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe never,” Brick muttered, low enough that only Dominic and Silas heard.
The whistle blew, sharp and tyrannical, signaling the end of rec time. A collective groan went up, and the yard began to move, a slow, reluctant river of gray heading towards the steel doors.
Dominic stood, his joints protesting slightly. He stretched, the colorful drawings on his skin stretching and shifting with the muscle underneath. He held a hand down to Angel. “Come on, Mr. Snuffles’s papa. Time to go.”
Angel took his hand, bouncing to his feet. He kept the marker box clutched tight in his other arm. As they fell into the shuffling line, other inmates gave them a wide berth, their eyes flicking from Dominic’s formidable face to the childish scribbles on his arms and quickly away.
A young, nervous-looking inmate from a different block, emboldened by the crowd or simply stupid, smirked and nudged his friend. “Looks like the Reaper’s been to kindergarten,” he whispered, just loud enough to carry.
The line around them froze for a microsecond.
Dominic didn’t even turn his head. He just stopped walking.
Brick and Silas, flanking them, also stopped. The space around them cleared, inmates pressing back against the walls as if from a sudden drop in pressure.
Dominic’s hand tightened slightly around Angel’s. He slowly turned his head, just enough for the young inmate to see his profile. His black eyes were not angry. They were empty. A flat, dark calm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The inmate’s face drained of blood. His smirk vanished, replaced by raw, primal fear. He understood, in that instant, that the decorations did not change the nature of the beast. They were merely tolerated graffiti on a monument of pure, operational power.
“I… I didn’t…” the inmate stammered.
“You didn’t think,” Ghost finished softly, appearing suddenly just behind the man, making him jump. “Move along.”
The inmate scurried away, melting into the crowd.
The moment passed. The line moved again.
Angel, oblivious to the subtext, squeezed Dominic’s hand. “Daddy, your puppy is smudging a little.” He pointed to where the fresh ink had transferred slightly onto Dominic’s shirt.
Dominic looked down at the smear, then at Angel’s concerned face. The terrifying emptiness in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a deep, weathered fondness. “It’s okay, baby. It’ll wash. Mr. Snuffles is just… making his mark.”
He led Angel through the heavy steel door, back into the dim, echoing bowels of the prison, a fearsome king with a child’s drawings on his skin and a small, blood-obsessed Omega trusting completely at his side. The door clanged shut behind them, sealing them back into their shared, intricate, and vividly-scented world.