Page 77 of Claim

Until Dent said, “You’re up for court.”

Then my arm gave out, and I landed flat on the floor, breath punching out of me, palms burning on the concrete. For a second I stayed there, face to the ground, as if it might explain what the fuck that meant.

“Court?” I pushed up, dragging air back into my lungs. “When?”

“Few minutes. Get ready.”

I looked down at myself. I was a sweaty, stinking, disgusting mess. Three hours of squats, pull-ups, sit-ups, push-ups had done its worst. The cell stank of metal and body and effort.

“Can I shower?”

Dent laughed. “No.”

Then he stepped out and shut the door.

Shit.

I scrubbed a hand over my hair, stiff with salt. Typical. Hauled up for court right after I’d worked myself into a state. Normally I wouldn’t have cared. I’d walked into worse places looking worse than this. But court meant lawyers. My lawyers.

Which meant Tristan.

If he was going to see me today, I didn’t want the first thing he noticed to be how much this place had taken from the man he was fighting for on the outside. So I turned to the tiny, stainless-steel piece of crap sink that spat out only cold and splashed water over my face and body, gasping at the temperature. I dragged my fingers through the worst of the sweat, using the thin prison soap and working up what little lather it would give, then scrubbed under my arms, across my neck, over my collarbones.

No mirror. Had to go by feel.

I then rinsed off and grabbed a paper towel. It was rough and mostly useless, but I pressed it to my skin anyway, blotting at my chest, my hair, doing what I could with what I had. Then I brushed my teeth hard enough to sting, gums burning, spit hitting the sink with a dull echo. Rinsed. Again. Pulled on my standard-issue grey joggers and the white T-shirt they’d finally let me switch into after the last one had crusted dark with blood. It was too small, stretched tight across my shoulders and chest, clinging to my bulk as if chosen for that exact reason.

Probably had.

Walk a man into court looking like a problem and half the work’s already done. Let the fabric do the talking. Let the judge clock the size, the shape, the threat, and think twice about letting someone like me back out onto the street.

In this place, nothing was accidental.

I hadn’t heard a word from the outside. Not from Tristan. Not even from Mercer. This was the first I knew of any movement beyond these walls. Fuck knew what strings they’d pulled to make this happen, or what it would cost. Fuck knew if it would even work.

But it was something.

And right now, something was all I had.

The keys came again, and Dent returned, another screw with him. No small talk. No warning. Cuffs out.

“Hands,” Dent said.

Cold metal closed around my wrists and I stepped back automatically, letting them do it. The door opened, and I was walked out, through the seg corridor, past doors I didn’t look at anymore, right into the search room.

I hated this part.

The room was bare. A bench was bolted to the wall, a drain in the floor, and nothing else. The door shut behind me with a final, echoing thud. Dent stayed. The other guard took up position by the door.

“Standard procedure,” Dent said, as if it was an apology. “Strip.”

I did. One item at a time. Tee. Joggers. Socks. Everything folded and placed where they told me to put it, even though it wouldn’t matter in a minute. This was about compliance. Reminding me that no matter what I’d scrubbed away in my cell, no matter how human I’d tried to make myself, they still got this part.

After, Dent said, “Get dressed.”

I pulled the clothes back on, hands shaking and pissing me off. The cuffs went back on immediately after. Control restored. Then they marched me out, through another gate, another corridor, down to transport.

The van waited.