Title: Prisoner
Series: Steele Pack, Book One
Author: GiGi DeGraham
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 01/31/2023
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 88800
Genre: Paranormal, contemporary, romance, gay/questioning, genderqueer/genderfluid, asexual, interracial, action/adventure, suspense, prisoners, prison/prison escape, grieving, graphic violence, rape attempt, PTSD, off-grid living/isolation, subsistence/hunting, winter, one-bed, soulmates, friends to lovers, second chance, mysterious wolves
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Description
Most prisoners believe their punishment is unfair, but for Ryan Tarkett, it’s true. While serving his sentence, an attack sets off a chain of events and forces Ryan to speed up the timeline on an insane escape plan. Spurring him on are memories of his past, his one love, who he met in juvie, and the driving desire for freedom. When Ryan believes he has nothing left to lose, escape from prison becomes the only option.
Ryan’s desperate journey isn’t easy as he tries to evade capture. Past regrets and confusion about his sexual orientation dog him as he deals with the loss of Thomas. When a stranger gives Ryan the chance at a new life, somewhere he might begin to feel safe, he may learn to trust again.
But in his mountain hideaway, Ryan feels as if he is being watched. Something lurks in the surrounding woods. Flashes of a figure give the impression he is being followed or, worse, hunted. Alone and lonely, Ryan fears he is losing his mind. When his new shadow seems intent on sticking around, Ryan starts to suspect this is no ordinary Wolf.
Prisoner is a different kind of love story, where a mystery waits to unfold.
Prisoner
GiGi DeGraham © 2023
All Rights Reserved
When he got out of the hole, Big Bastard already knew what had happened. Word traveled fast amongst the men who were seen as leaders. Prisoner 793 knew Big Bastard believed in looking out for one’s cellmate; it was a strange sense of brotherhood. Some loyalty most likely carried over from his motorcycle club days. Big Bastard—Curtis—looked him over, inspected all his stitches, the swelling, and scowled deeper than usual. Slowly, 793 shook his head, No, answering whether Dean Harrold had actually got him or not, and Big Bastard nodded.
“Good,” he grumbled. “Toughen up, boy.” He reached up and roughly yanked the blanket up over 793 as he shook from the cold.
Nothing else was said over it, other than Curtis occasionally checking the goose egg on 793’s head over the next few days as the swelling began to slowly go down. When his attacker came out of his stint in medical and then the hole, Big Bastard sent 793 to the library to find a book he claimed he wanted. Big Bastard never read a damn thing except for the names on the bottom of each month’s calendar girl. His momma sent him one of those each year without fail.
Verr-on-i-caa…he had hummed when he flipped her photo up and covered up September’s Baam-bee. That one—she’d been wearing a fireman’s hat and holding a hose. By the time 793 returned with the book, Big Bastard was back in the hole again, and Harrold was being transported to medical, this time on a gurney. There was talk that they were transporting him to the ER after the beatdown. A still sore 793 laid Big Bastard’s book, North American Birds, on his bed and understood what Curtis had done for him because the man was clearly no birdwatcher.
Alone in the cell again, 793’s head still throbbed, so he lay back down. His eyes lingered on Big Bastard’s wall calendar. October’s gal, Veronica, wore a little nurse hat and not much else. His lip quirked a little at that before scanning each square of the month and contemplating everything 793 knew so far. Then, as if a finger pressed down the fast-forward button on his mental cassette player, the ribbon on the reels wound forward, and the tape began to play. Unwinding a plan with each revolution of the post turning the take-up wheel and a checklist played from the supply wheel. He hummed an old favorite tune as his fingers tapped on his chest, and he played a strategic game behind closed lids. He tried to think back from the beginning for any part or piece he could use in this speedier construction.
Prison did odd things to some people. Solitary confinement and extensive stints in the hole had scarred him psychologically. Something had broken within him in the darkness, clawing at the walls like an animal, screaming, with no sense of time, life, or hope. He had all but forgotten his first name; he had become 793. His first name was Prisoner now. Sometimes they called him Tarkett, or just 793. He hadn’t noticed when the change had occurred, when he’d become a part of the mass, when he’d turned into just another number. A number stenciled on the back of his jumpsuit and stamped on his intake file. This number in full, T-99-00793 (Tarkett, 793rd inmate entered into the database for the year of conviction, 1999), identified him as a criminal, a violent felon, in his permanent record.
In juvie, they used softer terms like “detainee” or “resident.” Big-boy jail graduated you to harder terms like “inmate,” “prisoner,” and “convict.” It was difficult losing your identity, your individualism, when you never really had a chance to know who you were to begin with.
He had been this number since he was a young and damaged teenage boy. It was the summer before he started ninth grade when he was arrested and charged with killing the man who had assaulted his sister. He’d do it again if he was forced to live that afternoon over. He was not repentant. He did not regret his actions. Prisoner 793 had saved her, and he’d pay for it in flat-time until he was sixty-five.
It was unfortunate that the location of his crime had occurred on the grounds of a state park, operated by the National Park Service, a federal agency. This landed him a flat-time sentence, federally charged with no chance of parole. He would have to serve the entire sentence every single year in full. Had the crime occurred just a few hundred feet from where it had, off federally protected land, 793 would have the same parole eligibility as non-federally prosecuted inmates. To put it simply: He was fucked.
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GiGi DeGraham lives, plays, and learns in New Orleans. She is a proud southerner and enjoys fixing up old houses and writing. Most of her story and character ideas develop while sanding and painting. She loves to roller skate and has a favorite author-named cat called Irving, after Washington Irving. You’ll always find her with an audiobook in her ear and listening to everything narrated by Kirt Graves.
GiGi prefers the outdoors when the weather permits, going on rock and fossil hunts or visiting local rock shops. Otherwise, she’s clacking away at her keyboard until the wee hours. GiGi firmly believes downtime should be spent on a porch swing. GiGi is a life-long supporter of the LGBTQ+ community.
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