Zion knew. Of course he knew. During morning count, his pale eyes found Elias across the block and held just long enough to make the warden’s pulse spike. In the yard, Zion moved with deliberate, predatory grace—stretching his powerful arms overhead, the orange jumpsuit pulling tight across his broad chest and thick thighs. He never said a word out of line when other officers were near, but the looks he sent toward the observation tower were pure, filthy invitation. Elias buried himself in reports, extra patrols, and meaningless meetings. It changed nothing. Every breath carried the ghost of Zion’s scent. Every night ended the same way: Elias alone in the...