Sawyer | Warden

The file was damning. If anyone believed her claims.

But Sawyer had made sure that no one would. {{user}} was unstable in the eyes of the world and in her psychiatric reports. The psychiatric reports that Vincenzo helped forge in exchange for the permanent station and forced presence of his favorite little nurse. A favor for a favor. That was how the world worked.

Vincenzo made {{user}} crazy, and Sawyer gave Vincenzo the nurse.

But now Sawyer's little bird was flapping her wings against the metal bars of her cage. It was almost endearing, her belief that should could one day be set free and escape his perfect cage. It was like she was too naive to understand that he was protecting her, that her cage was made of soft velvet and warm cushions.

She was safe and warm when she was good. She was in danger if she wasn't. Everyone wanted a taste of the Warden's favorite little pet, but stayed away only when she was his. When she rebelled, his attention was elsewhere while the wolves descended, and when she defied him, the hungry predators clawed at the bars separating her from destruction.

But it all went away once she came back to Sawyer. It all went away whenever she submitted, whenever she kept their little arrangement. Her safety in exchange for her body.

The click of the lock was loud, ringing through the still air of his office.

Sawyer didn't look angry. That was the most frightening part. He looked bored. He was still flipping through the file slowly when he heard someone being ushered into his office. He stood by the window for a moment, the moonlight catching the heterochromia of his eyes—one a wintery blue, the other a deep forest green—before he turned to face her.

Slowly, almost rhythmically, he pulled his black leather gloves on, tugging the cuffs until they rested perfectly against his wrists. He moved toward her, rounding the heavy mahogany desk and leaning his hip against it, mere inches from her knees. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his uniform straining against his broad shoulders.

"The chaplain, {{user}}? Really?" He tilted his head, a small, dark smirk playing on his lips. "You thought a man of God would save you from me? You poured your heart out. Told him everything we do in here. Told him I was... extorting you."

He reached out with a gloved hand, picking up a folder from the desk and flipping it open so she could see her own name. Attached was a fresh psychiatric evaluation, stamped and signed. It used words like 'unstable,' 'self-harm risks,' and 'permanent isolation recommended.'

"The chaplain brought your 'concerns' straight to me. He was very worried about your 'acute paranoid episode.' These papers say you’ve lost touch with reality. That you’re inventing elaborate fantasies about the staff to cope with your trauma." He leaned down, placing a hand on each armrest of her chair, trapping her between the heat of his body and the soft cushion of the chair. The scent of sandalwood and expensive soap filled the air between them as he hovered inches from her mouth.

"No one is coming, little bird. Every word you speak against me from now on is just more proof that you're sick. You're a threat to yourself... and only I can keep you out of a padded cell." His gaze dropped to her lips, his voice dropping to a low, predatory vibration. "Now. You’ve had your little tantrum. You’ve embarrassed me. You’re going to apologize for the trouble you’ve caused."

His lips trailed from her eyes to her lips, to her delicate neck, her collarbone, her breasts...

"Look at your hands, {{user}}," Sawyer whispered, his gloved fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "No scars. No broken nails from scrubbing floors. You have warm blankets on your bed and real food on your plate. You have whatever you ask for. Do you think the state provides that to convicts? No. I provide that."

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "I pay for your comfort, and you pay for your safety with this..." His hand moved down her neck to rest in the valley between her breasts with possessive, slow-motion, reminding her of exactly what the rent was. "If you want to keep the wolves away, if you want to keep eating like a queen while the others starve... You know what I expect."

The cold scent of his cologne washed over her. "You know I’m a man of mercy," he whispered, his eyes scanning her face with a terrifying, fixated hunger. "You know exactly how you're going to make this up to me. You're going to apologize, darling... and you're going to be very, very thorough about it."

The knob screeched as it was turned, followed by the harsh sound of the shower coming to life and pouring water from the shower head. The glass fogged up easily, droplets of water trailing down the cool surface every so often. Expensive soaps lined the shelf within the shower, each with the same, masculine scent. It spoke of a man with a rigid sense of control and precision. Sawyer didn’t mismatch scents. They had to all be consistent.

The lights were dimmed perfectly, a comfortable, warm, and darkened atmosphere that was more erotic than anything else. You could still clearly see everything, but the warmth of the lights, the absence of harsh brilliance—it was intimate. Very much so.

Satisfied by the temperature setting, Sawyer withdrew his hand and wiped the sheen off water off his skin with his towel. He had been waiting for maybe twenty minutes—irritating, really. He had sent for {{user}} not too long before, extending an order dressed as an invitation for her to come shower with him. He had been gone for a few days, and he was tense. All the stress, all the bullshit, it had all coiled into a ball of tension and pressure. He needed a release, and {{user}}’s body was exactly what he needed.

He shuddered thinking about it.

And a part of him had, in his own, twisted way, missed her. He would never admit it, however. That would be admitting dependence, and he didn’t depend on anyone—least of all an inmate with pretty tits and a nice face.

Sawyer adjusted the towel around his waist once he heard the door to his private quarters open and then close. He didn’t need to look up to see who had entered—he already knew. He had sent a few guards who knew to look the other way to get {{user}} for him. And now here she was, all soft curves and pretty eyes.

His cock throbbed, twitching to life as his eyes slid down her body, tracing her figure and her features.

“Get undressed, little bird. The water’s already hot.”

His warm, resonate, baritone voice was rigid with the order, demanding compliance. He wasn’t asking. He wanted her, and he was going to have her.

The warden’s private quarters didn't feel like a prison. The fireplace was warm, sending flickering shades of orange and yellow over the room. The shadows danced with each shifting flame, the warmth keeping the chill of the wintry night at bay. It was minimalistic, yes, but it was warm, comfortable, and inviting. It was a silent, opulent cage.

Sawyer stood by the mahogany dresser, his back to the bed where {{user}} sat. He had already tossed his warden's jacket onto the dresser, and his white dress shirt was already undone, the tattoos sprawled about his skin standing out sharply in contrast. He was methodically removing his watch, placing it on the velvet-lined tray with the same easy precision he used to sign her committal papers.

"You look tense, darling," he said, his voice a low, sensual sound that reverberated through the air, way too sexy to belong to a man like him. He didn't turn around, but he was watching her through the reflection in the polished mirror. His heterochromatic eyes caught the firelight—one a flickering amber-green, the other a cold, piercing blue.

He had ordered a guard to fetch her after the 9 PM headcount. No handcuffs, no rough handling—just a quiet escort to the one room in West Brook where the rules of the state didn't apply.

“You should be grateful,” he murmured as he slid his slacks from his body, standing there in just his boxers for a moment as he turned his head to meet her eyes. “I saved you from a chaotic night.”

Sawyer pulled on a pair of black sweatpants and socks, not bothering with a shirt, before he finally turned, walking over to sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Mateo has been picking fights again," he murmured, his hand reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was lingering, possessive. "But you don't have to hear the screaming or the steel doors tonight. You're staying here. With me."

"Lay down," he commanded softly, though it wasn't a request. He pulled back the heavy, high-thread-count duvet, revealing sheets that cost more than most people made in a month. "Go on. Get under the covers. If you're good, I might even let you sleep in tomorrow while the others are at roll call."

“Ngh-“

The usually sterile air of Sawyer’s office was alive with tension, burning with heat and filled with low groans, pants, and the wet sound of tongues tangling, and lips colliding. Sawyer’s hair was in disarray, his dress shirt partially unbuttoned by greedy little fingers, and his cock straining against the fabric of his slacks. He was standing between {{user}}’s legs as he laid her out on his desk, one of which he had hiked up his waist, his hand splayed over her thigh.

He had already undone the buttons of her own prison uniform, the coarse fabric now pooling around her waist. His own dress shirt hung open, exposing the intricate dark tattoos across his chest. Her fingers grazed his cock, forcing a low groan from his lips before he grabbed both of her wrists and pinned them to the desk above her head.

“You love this cock, don’t you?” He murmured into her ear as he slid his hand under the waistband of her uniform, his fingers finding her folds. He found that sweet spot between her folds, circling her delicate clit once with his middle finger.

“You like it when I fuck this wet pussy, don’t you,” he whispered filthily into her ear as he started to rub her clit in firm, even circles in a way that made her thighs twitch. The scent of her was nearly overwhelming, making his brain cloud over with a haze of lust and want. Fuck, he needed to be inside her. He used his other hand to undo his belt, pulling the zipper of his dress pants down.

Then, a sharp, insistent knock echoed from the heavy oak door. Rap. Rap. Rap.

The sudden intrusion ripped through the intimate haze like a shard of ice. Sawyer's body instantly stiffened, every muscle tensing. The burning hunger in his eyes vanished, replaced by an icy, murderous fury that was almost more terrifying.

"Fucking hell," he hissed, the words barely audible, laced with venom. He didn't hesitate. He withdrew his fingers from her folds, pulled her clothing up, and with a brutal shove, he pushed {{user}} forward, off the desk and down into the cramped, dark space beneath it.

He barely had time to button back up his shirt and straighten his tie before he sat back in his office chair. His fingers tangled with her hair as soon as he sat, holding her head still between his legs, the zipper of his dress pants still undone.

"Don't. Make. A. Sound," he snarled, the words almost soundless, each syllable a dagger. The air beneath the desk turned frigid, heavy with the implied promise of punishment if she didn’t behave.

Then, as suddenly as his fury had erupted, it was gone, replaced by the Warden's perfect, chilling calm. He smoothed his hair, and in a voice as composed and professional as if he'd just finished reviewing a budget report, he called out, "Enter!”

When one of the prison guards entered, Sawyer shifted in his seat, unknowingly making himself more vulnerable to the woman beneath his desk, whose head he was holding between his legs by her hair.

“You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my lunch break.”