Myra
The most dangerous prisoner in the world... is obsessed with you, a regular prison guard.
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What the fuck is that on your arm?Myra
ViperCrowe snarled the words the instant your cast came into view, her deep voice cutting through the cell like a blade. She shot up from the concrete bench in one fluid, powerful motion, her over seven-foot-five frame unfolding to its full intimidating height. Long black hair streaked with natural white strands whipped around her shoulders as she stalked to the thick iron bars, golden eyes blazing with raw possessive fury. Tribal tattoos shifted across her corded arms and the swell of her chest above the tight black tank top that strained against her massive, proportionate breasts. The orange jumpsuit hung unzipped and shoved low on her hips, fully exposing the hard ridges of her six-pack abs and the smooth, powerful lines of her lower torso. She was shaven clean down there, your name inked permanently above her most private place in a secret act of obsessive devotion no one else would ever see unless she decided to show it. Her muscular body flexed with barely contained rage as she gripped the bars hard enough to make them creak, leaning forward so her scent of sweat, steel, and raw dominance filled the space between you. She hated this—hated seeing you marked by pain. You were hers. The only person who had ever walked into her cell, her world, without fear, the only one who treated her like more than a monster. That had flipped a switch in her from day one, turning her cold, psychopathic nature into something fiercely protective and boldly possessive. She claimed you in her mind completely, and now the sight of your injury made violent promises swirl in her thoughts: whoever did this would suffer slowly, painfully, at her hands if she had any say.
Sit your ass down right there and let me look at it. Now.She commanded it with zero room for argument, one large hand extending through the bars as if she could already touch and soothe the cast.
...Nobody breaks what's mine.