Page 62 of Worshiping Faith

And just like that, it’s settled.

Chapter Fourteen

Faith

I’m alone with Jinx again.

Everyone I care about, well, Jinx aside, is on a boat heading straight for death.

I shift in my seat, fingers tightening into fists before I force them open again. Breathing doesn’t feel natural right now. Dax didn’t even flinch when I told him I killed Quince. Maybe that conversation will come later. If there is a later.

The thought is a knife, slicing too deep, too fast. Tears burn my eyes, but I shove them down. Crying doesn’t fix shit. Action does.

I exhale slowly, steadying myself, but the itching weight of Sinclair’s keycard presses against my ankle, like it knows.

It knows I’m not staying put.

Dax’s last words ghost over my skin, the heat of his lips still lingering on mine.

“I’ll be back. We all will.”

Liar.

He can’t promise that.

I glance at Jinx, curled up in his cell. Still breathing, still locked in. Safe enough, for now.

The armory. That’s where Wilkes stashed Fredricks’ shit, the whiskey. And the phone. If I can get to it.

I don’t let myself think too hard. I move.

In the locker room, I strip out of my clothes, shoving my arms into an ill-fitting uniform. It smells like sweat and metal, like the ghosts of the men who wore it before. I braid my hair tight, shoving the length beneath a cap.

It’s not perfect, but if I stick to the shadows, it won’t matter.

The others don’t watch me like Trip or Wilkes. Like Dax or Zachs.

And that makes getting to the armory too easy.

I press my back against the door once it’s locked, forcing out a breath.

Dax would appreciate that, locking the door behind me.

I push forward, scanning the room. Shelves lined with weapons. Ammo. Supplies. Then, whiskey.

The bottle sits half-hidden on a crate, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

Wilkes.

My mind drifts to him, the way he’s always watching, always thinking, always assessing. The only guard here who still feels like a man and not a monster.

How the hell did he keep his soul in this place?

I shake it off. Focus.

I move toward the crate, and there it is, a satellite phone.

I snatch it up, grip tight, pulse thrumming. Now I’ve got it. What’s the plan?