Page 36 of Worshiping Faith

His room is just as nice as mine and Dax’s. The brass really did live it up, even in a place like this. Monsters.

Zachs pulls the door shut behind us, his shoulders squared, solid, like he’s bracing for something. “You sure?” There’s no teasing in his voice. No jokes. No grin. Just pure, raw certainty, waiting for mine in return.

My throat is dry. I nod, then find my voice. “Are you?”

His lips curve, slow and sharp. “Oh, hell yes. I’m going to ruin you.”

That grin. That goddamn dimple. Even with the blood spattered on his cheek, he’s still the most devastating thing I’ve ever seen.

I might be just as bent as him.

I follow him into the bathroom, peeling my clothes away as he starts the water.

When he turns, his gaze sweeps over me, slow, lingering.

Heat pulses through me, tightening low in my stomach.

Then he strips, and my breath catches.

He’s beautiful.

Not in the way men like Dax or Trip are, all controlled strength and power.

Zachs is chaos wrapped in skin.

There’s not a single tattoo on him, but his body tells a story anyway.

Scars. So many scars. Some small and faded, others thick and unforgiving, stretched over his ribs, his chest, his wrists. Most are old, but some aren’t.

I reach out without thinking, my fingertips brushing over one across his chest, tracing the jagged line of it. “Zachs.” It comes out soft, pained, because I don’t even know the stories behind them, but I can feel them.

He watches me, unreadable, then wraps his fingers around mine. “We all got scars,” he murmurs, stepping back into the shower and taking me with him. “My soap don’t smell as sweet as you.”

I follow, letting the heat of the water rush over us both. It pools pink at our feet at first, washing away the day, the blood, the weight of everything we’ve done to survive.

I take the bottle of body wash and squeeze some into my hands.

I don’t rush. I want to feel my way around him, explore every inch of him with purpose, with care. My fingers glide over hisstomach, smoothing over the ridges of muscle, the faint scars scattered across his ribs.

His body loosens beneath my touch, tension bleeding from his shoulders as I work my way up, rubbing slow circles over his chest, his arms, his throat.

His eyes fall half-lidded, his breathing deepening as he lets me unmake him, piece by piece.

Then he takes the bottle. His fingers are so gentle, so thorough, as he lathers his palms and runs them over me. Slowly. Methodically. His touch is so reverent, it almost undoes me. There’s no urgency, no hunger yet. Just this.

The weight of his hands. The steady, almost worshipful way he trails them over my arms, my back, the curve of my waist. By the time his palms slide over my stomach, his thumbs brushing my ribs, I’m trembling.

But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Not until the water runs cold.

He pulls me against him, his skin hot despite the chill, and lifts me out of the shower. His arms wrap around me completely, like he’s shielding me from the cold spray, from everything outside this moment. Then he grabs a towel, cocooning me in warmth, like I’m something precious.

Like I’m his.

And maybe I am.

Maybe I always was.