Page 72 of Worshiping Faith

I move fast, scaling the gangway ahead of them, then whip around just as Wilkes starts up with Jinx slung over his back.

Jinx groans, whether from pain or the sudden movement, I don’t know.

“Almost there,” I lie.

Zachs meets them halfway, reaching out as Wilkes crests the top.

For all his bullshit, Zachs is serious when it matters. He grabs Jinx’s arm, guiding the weight off Wilkes without a word.

They don’t look at each other.

Don’t speak.

Just move.

And just like that, we’re onboard.

I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest as Zachs and Wilkes maneuver Jinx down the corridor.

I’m not ready to process this yet. Any of it.

I never thought I’d be reluctant to leave the Warden’s Graveyard.

The prison had been a hell of its own, but at least it was a familiar hell. I knew its walls, its structure, the way power shifted between men who thought they had control. I knew the kinds of monsters that place held because I’d spent my life studying them. Surviving them.

This ship? It’s something else entirely.

The corridors feel too tight, more suffocating than they should be. Metal walls close in, the air is wrong, carrying the tang of salt and oil instead of blood and sweat.

I follow Wilkes and Zachs as they navigate the dimly lit passageways, Jinx half-conscious between them. The sound of their boots echoes, too sharp in the empty halls. Every creak, every shift of the massive vessel, sends unease creeping up my spine.

I don’t like this. Too many unknowns.

I push the thought down. Jinx first. Then I can let the fear settle.

Not that I’ll have time for it.

We round a corner and reach the crew quarters. The doors here are uniform, numbered, metal-gray. No bars, no reinforcedlocks, no tiny shatterproof windows like a cell. But somehow, it still feels like a prison.

Wilkes pushes into one of the rooms and Zachs helps lower Jinx onto a cot. It’s not much, but it’s better than a slab of concrete behind bars.

I step in quickly, adjusting the pillow, pulling the blanket over him. Not soft. Nothing in his world has ever been soft, and I fucking hate that for him.

His breathing is still rough. I place a hand on his forehead, he’s burning up.

“We got water and food? Meds?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend. I’m still in survival mode, still fighting to keep someone from slipping through my fingers.

Wilkes rolls his shoulders, exhaustion plain in the set of his jaw. “We stocked the infirmary already. Some in storage too.”

“I’ll get it,” I say, already turning toward the door. They need to sit. They need to rest. I hate that I’m still making them move when they’ve been through hell.

Zachs leans against the wall, arms crossed, bloody and still too damn cocky for a man who nearly drowned.

“You have no idea where you’re going. I got it,” he says, pushing off the wall. “You tell me hello when I get back?”

Shit. I didn’t even…

I nod. Guilt tightens in my chest.