Page 82 of Worshiping Faith

“You’re so strong,” I whisper. “After everything, I know you can kick this fever’s ass.”

Jinx turns his face into my hand, pressing into it like he’s never known what it’s like to be comforted. A slow exhale leaves him, almost like relief. Like safety.

“Tired,” he breathes.

“I know,” I murmur, shifting my legs up onto the cot, leaning back against the wall.

Jinx barely hesitates. He moves with that same bone-deep exhaustion, turning just enough to rest his head against my hip.

I go still.

So does Wilkes. His nostrils flare. The muscle at the side of his neck twitches. That tension rolls off him in thick waves, controlled, but there.

I lift my gaze, catch the way his hands flex at his sides. I mouth,he’s sick.

Wilkes’ eyes harden. His expression says,I don’t give a fuck.

And damn if that doesn’t do something to my stomach.

Jinx is out cold again. Good. He needs it.

I slip off the cot and follow Wilkes into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I barely make it two steps before I whirl on him. “What the fuck was that?” I keep my voice low, but the heat in it burns. “The man is fighting for his life. He needs comfort. A little goddamn tenderness wouldn’t kill any of you.”

Wilkes stops, turning slow. His eyes are sharp, steady. Unmoved.

“I know you got a thing for seeing these dregs as men, Faith,” he says, voice calm. Controlled. Measured. “But some of them aren’t men.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “He’s sick.”

“He’s a fucking junkie,” Wilkes cuts in, his tone like iron. “Jinx would slit an old lady’s throat for twenty bucks to get his next fix, and that’s before the world went to shit. That thing in there?” He nods toward the door. “That ain’t a man. That’s a habit wearing skin. And you,” His jaw tightens. “Are letting it pull at your fucking heartstrings because he’s crashing hard.”

I stare at him. I’ve never heard Wilkes like this before.

His voice stays quiet, but every word hits like a goddamn hammer. “We need him. He’s some kind of medical marvel. That doesn’t make him more than a piece of shit under your shoe.” His eyes drag over my face, assessing. Challenging. “None ofthese cons deserve the sympathy you give them.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Not a damn one.”

I suck in a breath, my chest tightening. Not a damn one?

That includes Dax. Zachs. Trip.

My spine locks. “And guards?” I shoot back, defensive now. “Do they deserve it any more than the inmates?”

His expression doesn’t shift. “They deserve you even less.”

And then he’s on me.

Not touching, not yet, but close. His hand lifts, fingers curling under my chin. Not soft. Not rough. Just… deliberate. A correction. A claim.

His eyes are locked on mine, burning through me, dark and unreadable. There’s no rage. No cruelty.

Just a promise.

My breath hitches. My pulse is a riot. My fingers flex at my sides.

“And you?” I snap, throwing the words out because it’s all I have right now, because I’m so fucking thrown by him. By this. “Do you deserve the sympathy I give you?”

His lips curve. Not a smirk, not a smile. Just a shift. A warning.