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The moment to escape his grasp comes, and I rush through the door into the holding area, questioning, "What number?"
"Fifteen."
Catcalls erupt from the men locked up. They echo louder as I pass more cells.
"Shut up," the sheriff barks, but there's nothing he can do.
The noise increases. I get to fifteen, already thinking about what I'm going to say to my clients, and freeze, the air disappearing from my lungs.
𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮.
A devil in cowboy boots lounges on a bench against the wall, owning the cell and reeking of sin. Denim covers his long legs, and a ripped, bloody white T-shirt stretches over his torso, half tucked into a belt buckle with a W on it. His wounded knuckles, full of ink and crossed peacefully on his taut abs, rise and fall with his breathing. A worn, brown leather cowboy hat tilts over his face, covering the bad-boy smirk I'm sure plays on his lips.
The dim light of the holding cell makes the inked sleeve on his forearm appear dangerous and majestic. Black lines etched into sun-warmed skin hint about stories you'd never unravel unless he let you close enough to trace them with your tongue.
He's the kind of man who'd wreck your plans, your bed, and your sense of right and wrong, without ever raising his voice.
And that's exactly what Wyatt Houston did to me.
Somehow, I forget to breathe. I reach for the bars, wrapping my fingers around one, trying to stop the adrenaline rush and chaos attacking me from every angle.
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