Chapter 2: Punishment Breeding
He lost track of time, measured only by the tightening coil in his gut. Footsteps finally echoed in the corridor, heavy and unhurried. The cell door opened again, and Burns shoved Red back inside.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall. Her face was a closed fist, pale beneath the freckles. The back of her hand was split, a fresh, raw cut weeping blood. Her eyes met Dom’s for a fractured second, wide and hollow, before skittering away to a point on the floor.
“No fraternizing,” Burns growled, his gaze a deliberate crawl over her body. He lingered on the strip of wrist visible from her sleeve. “Warden’s orders. You so much as whisper, Toretto, and she goes back to the hole. For a month.”
The door sealed shut with a definitive clank. The silence it left was a physical thing, choking and dense.
Red stood frozen, her breath coming in short, quiet hitches. She stared at her own bleeding knuckles as if they belonged to someone else.
“Red.” Dom’s voice was softer than he intended. He didn’t move from his spot by the bunks.
“Don’t,” she whispered. It wasn’t anger. It was a plea.
“What did they do?”
A shiver ran through her, a full-body tremor she couldn’t suppress. She wrapped her arms around herself, the gesture making her look impossibly small. “He had questions. About the kitchen supply locker. Said things went missing.”
“Did you take anything?”
“No.” The word was flat, absolute. She finally looked at him, her green eyes glittering with unshed tears she’d die before shedding. “He didn’t care about answers, Dom. He wanted to talk about my temper. About how I need… discipline.”
The meaning hung in the foul air. Dom’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles white.
“He said he could make my time here real sweet. Or real fucking hard.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “I told him to go fuck himself.”
“So he did this.” Dom gestured to her hand, to the invisible damage beneath her skin.
“This was me.” She held up her split knuckles. “I punched the filing cabinet in his office. After he said he’d put me in the hole with Jennings.”
Dom knew Jennings. A predatory brute in for assault, who ran favors for Burns.
The image detonated in his mind: Red, alone in a concrete box with that animal. A red haze descended over his vision. He took a single, deliberate step toward her.
She flinched.
He stopped. The air between them crackled with a new, terrible voltage. Her fear wasn’t of him, he knew, but it was in the room now, a third occupant.
“He’s not touching you,” Dom said, the words a vow.
“You can’t stop it,” she breathed, her defiance crumbling into despair. “He owns this block. He can do whatever he wants.”
“Not to you.”
“Why?” The question burst from her, raw and sharp. “Why do you even care? I’m just some fucked-up redhead you got stacked with.”
He closed the distance then, not with violence but with a slow, undeniable finality. He stood before her, so close he could feel the heat coming off her shaking body. He could smell the antiseptic they’d used on her hand, the iron-tang of her blood.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low.
She did, her chin tilting up with remnants of that old fire.
He didn’t touch her. He let his presence be the anchor. “Because you’re mine to look after in here. That’s the rule. My rule.”
A single tear escaped then, tracking a clean line through the grime on her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.
He did. Calloused thumb, gentle as a sigh, brushing the moisture from her skin. The contact was electric. Her eyes slammed shut, a sharp inhale catching in her throat.
When she opened them again, the fear was gone, burned away by something hotter, needier, more desperate. It mirrored the ache in his own gut, the one that had been building since the sound of her muffled cries filled their cell.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lower.
Her good hand came up, fingers trembling, and pressed against the solid wall of his chest. She could feel the furious drum of his heart beneath her palm.
“Make me feel something else,” she whispered, the words filthy and sacred all at once. “Please, Dom. Make me forget this place. Just for a minute.”
His control, the careful architecture of it, crumbled to dust.
He grabbed the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her unruly hair, and pulled her mouth to his. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a collision. A claiming. Her lips were soft and desperate under his, opening instantly. She tasted of salt and defiance. A broken sound vibrated from her throat into his mouth.
Her hands clawed at the back of his prison scrubs, fisting the fabric, pulling him harder against her. He walked her backward until her spine met the cold concrete wall. The impact jarred a gasp from her lips, which he swallowed.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed with a wild hunger. “This is what you want?” he growled, his voice rough.
“Yes. God, yes. Fuck me, Dom. I need it.”
He spun her around, facing the wall. She stiffened for a fraction of a second, a memory of other hands, then melted, bracing her forearms against the concrete. He yanked the loose drawstring of her pants, the knot giving way. He shoved the coarse fabric down over her hips in one brutal motion.
The pale curve of her ass was exposed in the grim light. He ran a hand over the skin, feeling her shudder.
“Now,” she begged, pushing her hips back. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.”
He undid his own pants, freeing his cock, already thick and hard and aching. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly. He didn’t ask if she was ready. He knew she was. The scent of her arousal was thick in the air, a primal perfume that cut through the stench of bleach and despair.
He pressed the head of his cock against her opening. She was hot and slick, her body welcoming him even as she trembled.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, pressing forward just an inch, making her feel the stretch.
“I want it,” she panted, pushing back against him. “I want your fucking cock. Please.”
He drove into her, a single, deep, punishing thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that echoed off the concrete. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a wet, velvety vise.
“Quiet,” he hissed in her ear, his body covering hers. He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in. The slap of skin on skin was obscenely loud in the sterile space.
She bit her own arm to stifle her moans. Her cunt was dripping, accommodating him perfectly with each fierce, driving stroke. He fucked her with a relentless, building rhythm, each thrust pushing her harder into the wall. It was raw and base, an animal coupling against the cold, unfeeling stone of their captivity.
One of his hands wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim. The other gripped her hip, his fingers digging into the flesh, sure to leave bruises.
“You take it so good,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “This tight little cunt was made for this.”
“Harder,” she whimpered, her words slurred with pleasure. “Fucking ruin me.”
He obeyed, pistoning into her with a force that stole her breath. The base of his cock ground against her clit with every brutal entry, sending shockwaves of rough pleasure through her. She was so wet he could hear it, a filthy, squelching rhythm that matched their ragged breathing.
Her orgasm built fast, a tidal wave born from terror and need. It crashed over her without warning, a silent, seismic convulsion that locked her muscles and drew a choked gasp from her throat. Her inner walls fluttered and clenched around his shaft, milking him, pulling him deeper.
The feel of her coming untouched, just from the savage pounding of his cock, shattered his last shred of restraint.
“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their punishing rhythm for something more urgent, more final. “Take my fucking seed.”
With a guttural sound that was more snarl than words, he plunged deep and held there, pulsing as his release shot into her in thick, hot stripes. He ground his hips against her, ensuring every last drop was spent inside her. She collapsed forward, her forehead resting against the cool concrete, utterly spent, his body heavy and possessive on top of hers.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their labored breathing, the humid smell of sex now overpowering everything else. He softened inside her, still nestled deep.
He slowly pulled out. A trickle of their mingled fluids trailed down the inside of her thigh. The sight in the dim light was profoundly obscene. A mark. A brand.
He turned her around, his hands gentler now. Her eyes were half-lidded, sated, the horrible blankness from before replaced by a drowsy, fucked-out glow. He pulled her pants up, his touch almost clinical now.
She leaned into him, her forehead pressing against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the fine tremors still running through her frame.
The silence stretched, comfortable now, dense with something that wasn’t just lust.
It was broken by the scrape of metal against concrete outside their door. Then, a soft, sliding sound.
They both stiffened. Dom put a finger to her lips. He moved silently to the door, peering through the small, thick window into the corridor. It was empty.
He looked down. A single, folded piece of paper had been pushed under their door. He picked it up, unfolded it. Two lines were scrawled in a blunt, official hand.
O’Connell, D Block, Kitchen Duty. Effective 0600 tomorrow.
Toretto, A Block, Laundry Detail. Immediate transfer.
He stared at the words. They were separating them. Isolating her. His transfer was immediate; he had minutes, maybe.
He turned to Red, who was reading the note over his shoulder, her face hardening back into its familiar, defensive lines. The fleeting peace was gone, shattered by a slip of paper.
“He’s not done,” she said, her voice hollow.
Dom crumpled the note in his fist. A new plan, cold and precise, began to form in his mind. He looked at her, at the fresh cut on her hand, at the marks he’d just left on her skin. His rule still stood. He would look after what was his.
Even if he had to burn this whole place down to do it.