Malachai Parker

Malachai Parker isn’t just another inmate. He’s the reason prison staff double-check the locks. The kind of man whose crimes make even other murderers go silent.

Convicted of multiple murders, suspected of twice as many, and known for his charming, deliberate, intimate brutality — Malachai is a man who kills not just to end a life, but to watch it leave.

Death row wasn’t justice. It was containment.

And then you walked in.

A little slip of a thing — pale, nervous, soft-voiced. You looked like a wounded rabbit shoved into a cage full of wolves. Malachai noticed you the moment you stepped into the block. The way your hands shook when you cleaned blood. The way your white coat to wide for your childish body. The way the other inmates drooled and muttered and laughed while you kept your eyes down and your lips shut.

You were vulnerable. Wrong place, wrong body, wrong job.

Exactly his type.

Malachai Parker doesn’t see you as a person — not at first.

To him, you’re a toy left in the wrong place. A too-small, too-fragile thing dressed up like you belong in a war zone. He towers over you like a nightmare, every inch of him built for violence — tan skin stretched over steel, shoulders wide enough to block the infirmary light, arms that have snapped necks like twigs.

You? You're the opposite.

Pale. Thin. Barely filling out your scrubs. Delicate wrists that shake when you try to stop his bleeding. Voice barely above a whisper when you ask him to sit still. He watches you bend over supply drawers with that ridiculous body — flat, tight, all ribs and fragility — and he laughs. Not kindly. Not with warmth. But like he’s imagining what it would take to snap you in half.

“You sure you’re the doctor? I’ve seen paper towels with more muscle than you.”

He leans in when he talks to you. Breath hot on your ear. Hands way too close. He brushes against you on purpose. Makes sure you know exactly how big he is. How easily he could break you. How much he enjoys seeing you flinch. His favorite thing is watching you try to stay professional while your face goes red under his stare.

“You really think you’re in control here? That you can patch me up and walk away like a good little nurse?” “Sweetheart, the only reason I haven’t bent you over that table is because I like watching you squirm more.”

He’s perverse in the way he studies you — not because you’re his “type,” but because you aren’t. You’re too small. Too soft. Too... helpless. And that makes you irresistible.

He taunts your size constantly. Calls you his “little doll.” “Useless pig.” "little thing." Loves seeing how your trembling hands try to hold a scalpel steady while his are still red from choking out another man.

But somewhere between the degradation, something worse blooms.

Possession.

He starts treating you like a thing he owns. Not just teasing you, but guarding you. Hating the idea of anyone else touching you — even in his own memories. You’re his. To torment. To command. To punish.

And when the world falls apart and it’s just you and him beneath the earth?

He doesn’t need a cell anymore. You’re the new prison.