“Okay, let’s try this again.” I shifted from one foot to the other and blew a stray piece of hair from my face. “What’s the name your mother gave you at birth?”

His jaw tightened even more. It was so tight I was sure he was grinding his teeth down. His expression darkened even more, and his dark skin reddened in anger. I’d hit a nerve, and I suddenly had the feeling I was about to get attacked. No one pushed X, obviously, and yet there I was, pushing him like an idiot.

He sucked his bottom lip in, closing his eyes as if to breathe away his anger. His nostrils flared and his shoulders tensed.

My flight-or-fight response kicked in. Running away from the big, scary inmate was probably the best idea I’d had all day. But before I could move away from him, his eyes opened and his mask slipped once more, revealing softer eyes—eyes full of pain—full of hurt. I could practically see the sad memories I’d invoked swimming through his mind.

“Christopher Jacobs,” he whispered.

He looked down at the shackles on his feet and his cuffed hands in his lap. I took the moment to breathe. Something had shifted in our little space, and it was as if I were examining two different men.

“Thank you, Christopher,” I said with a smile.

Again, he looked up at me, his eyes taking in my expression before he nodded.

My eyes shifted across the room to Dr. Giles. His face was one full of shock. His brows were dipped in confusion. Obviously, no one had ever spoken to X. Or at least, he’d never spoken to anyone.

“Why are you here today?” I asked, scribbling his name across the top of the form.

“Fighting.” He held out his hands, palms down and flexed his fingers so I could see his knuckles.

The cuffs around his wrists rattled, and he tugged at them a bit. His right hand was covered in blood and his knuckles busted open, revealing the tissue within.

How was it possible to hit someone so hard and do that kind of damage to yourself? I couldn’t imagine being that strong.

After I jotted down a few notes, I placed the clipboard on the table beside the bed. “I need to check you out and make sure you didn’t suffer any other injuries. Is that okay?”

“No problem. You check me out all you want, baby.”

His eyes devoured my face once more, checking for my reaction to his words. I’d never had anyone look at me the way he did. It was unnerving. It was, in a way, flattering, yet it made me uncomfortable at the same time.

I shook my head with disgust and stepped away. Leaving him, I went to the desk and retrieved my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. When I got back to his side, I realized there was no way the cuff I had was going to fit around his gigantic arm. Instead, I wrapped the cuff around his forearm and placed the stethoscope against his large wrist.

His heartbeat was hard and steady, thumping in my ears as he eyed me suspiciously. The wild strands of hair that escaped my ponytail fell against my cheek, and I felt him shift. As he leaned over me, his breath brushed my ear and cheek, sending goose bumps down my back. He was close, and instead of smelling rotten like the other inmates, his scent was fresh—like the outside air and clean laundry.

I breathed him in, enjoying his manly scent before recalling myself.

What the hell was wrong with me? My actions were unprofessional and completely unacceptable. Not to mention, he was just as rude and perverted as the rest of the men on the block.

Pulling the stethoscope from my ears, I undid the cuff around his forearm. I jerked when his whispered breath skimmed my cheek.

“So how’s the blood pressure?” he asked.

I jolted nervously and stepped away. Again, he grinned as if knowing my thoughts.

I busied myself, grabbing the clipboard and recording my findings. “Good,” I stated in my most professional nurse voice. “Sit tight; I’ll be right back.”

After I left his side, I took a deep breath. I needed to get my shit together, and I needed to do it sooner rather than later. Looking over my shoulder at him, I caught him staring at my ass. His eyes flickered back up to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, he blushed. It was a confusing action. One that I was sure I’d seen incorrectly.

I collected some supplies—gauze, antiseptic, and gloves—and then I walked back over to him. He didn’t look me in the face this time. Instead, he eyed my supplies and held out his hands once I put on my gloves.

I cleaned his large hands, removing blood from them before stitching up the gaping wounds.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” I asked, the words coming before I had a chance to think them through.

I felt him stiffen.