When it’s Shane’s turn to see me, Hunt grabs him by the arm and yanks him out of his seat. Shane needs a little help to stand, given his arms and legs are restrained, but Hunt is a lot rougher than he needs to be. And what’s up with the shackles each time? I thought before it was because he had been in a fight, but now he’s still cuffed.

Do they really think he’s that dangerous? The only other guy I’ve seen in the last few days who was shackled like this had an angry sneer and hate symbols tattooed all over his face.

But what am I saying? Of course Shane is dangerous. I know that better than anyone.

But he doesn’t look dangerous as he shuffles into my examining room and struggles to climb up on the table, a pained expression on his face. When he slips, he apologizes to me. “Sorry I’m so slow. It’s just hard to do anything chained up like this.”

You deserve it. The words are on my lips but I don’t say them. It would be unprofessional. Instead, I mutter, “Let’s get this done.”

He is struggling to find his balance on the exam table, and once again, I have to put out a hand to help him. He flashes me a grateful smile, and it looks so much like the old Shane, my cheeks burn, and I have to look away.

“Thanks, Brooke,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble.

“Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

I watch him attempt to scratch his nose with his hands shackled together. Finally, I ask the question that’s been running through my head since last week: “Why do they do this to you?”

Shane raises his eyebrows. “Do what?”

I nod down at the cuffs on his wrists. “Practically none of the other men get shackled this way. And I assume they’re all just as bad as you here.”

He cracks a lopsided smile. “Oh, I’m the worst.”

I stare at him.

“That’s what you think, isn’t it?” His fingertips dig into the khaki of his prison jumpsuit. “That I’m a monster? That I deserve all this?”

His brown eyes hold mine, and this time I refuse to look away. “Fine—don’t answer the question. That’s your right.”

I expected some nasty retort from Shane, but instead, his shoulders sag. He nods his head toward the closed door separating us from the guard. “You want to know why I’ve always got shackles on? It’s because he hates me.”

“Who?”

“Hunt. He hates my guts.”

“But why?”