Page 53 of Worshiping Faith

And still out of his goddamn mind.

“I need more than whiskey for this,” I mutter.

Chapter Twelve

Faith

Jinx looks more nervous than I feel as I step into the cell.

I’m not afraid of him. Not really.

He’s no more dangerous than Dax or Zachs, but there’s something different in his eyes, something raw. It’s not just the jittery edge of coming down from a high. It’s deeper than that. A kind of tension that sits under the skin, always waiting.

Like he’s bracing for something.

Like he doesn’t know if I’m about to hurt him or help him.

It’s likely no one has ever treated him with kindness, not once. I see it in the way he shifts his weight, the tightness in his shoulders. Like he expects anything reaching for him to be a fist, not a helping hand.

“This is going to hurt,” I say, keeping my voice steady as I dump the supplies onto the cot. “I can’t help that. You should sit down.”

He hesitates. His eyes flick to the door, tracking the distance. Calculating.

Not because he plans to run, there’s nowhere for him to go, but because running is instinct. Even cuffed, even injured, even with me standing here trying to help him, he’s still looking for the nearest exit.

Eventually, he lowers himself onto the cot. The cuffs pull his arms back at an awkward angle, and I see the way it strains him. His breathing is uneven, shallow. His fingers flex once against his thigh, like he’s forcing himself to stay still.

I kneel beside him, methodically sorting through the medical kit, taking my time to make sure my movements staycalm. I need him to feel like this is normal, like there’s no reason for him to be on edge.

“Listen,” I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye. “I’m going to uncuff you so you can lie back. That bite on your stomach, it needs debridement.”

The reaction is instant. His body goes rigid. His breathing slows like he’s holding it in, like if he stays completely still, this moment won’t happen.

He doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t trust anyone.

But it’s not just about that. There’s something else buried in that hesitation, something worse. A deeper fear.

Not of me.

Not even of Dax.

He’s afraid of himself.

Like he doesn’t trust what he might do if I take those cuffs off.

Like he’s seen himself lose control before, and he knows how that ends.

I stop what I’m doing and hold his gaze, locking onto it. I need him to hear me, to believe me.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” I say.

His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“Anyone,” I add, softer this time.

His fingers twitch against his thigh, so quick I almost miss it. But it’s enough.

I know that reaction. I recognize it deep in my bones.