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Faith

It’s more than the rough waves rocking the boat that’s making my stomach churn.

I’ve worked with violent offenders for years, advocating for inmates, listening to their horrors, helping them claw their way back to something resembling humanity.

But the idea of being dropped off at Ironclad Island, better known as the Warden’s Graveyard, for an entire month? It doesn’t sit right.

More than that, it’s horrifying.

The ferry jolts over another wave, and I shift my weight against the crate beside me. The salt-slick deck underfoot feels too narrow, the air too clean for where I’m headed. Ahead, the island rises out of the water like the jawbone of some massive predator.

From this distance, the dark wall of concrete that rings the shoreline is already visible.

A chain-link fence curls along the top of it, crowned with razor wire that glints in the sunlight.

Past that, squat gray buildings huddle together under the blinding sky.

No movement. No life. Just cold stone and metal waiting to swallow me whole.

I clutch my bag tighter and force down the knot in my throat. This is about them, not me.

The biohazard symbol stamped on the crate beside me practically screams for attention, its bright yellow impossible to ignore.

Supplies, they’d said. Nothing dangerous.

But I know better than to take things at face value.

I’ve read the reports. Officially, nothing is out of the ordinary, no misconduct, no experiments, nothing worth raising alarms over.

Unofficially? That’s why I’m here.

More than bruises or broken spirits, I’m looking for proof that these men, forgotten by society and locked away to rot, are being used as lab rats.

The ferry jolts as the island looms larger, the jagged wall of concrete sharpening into focus. My pulse picks up when I realize we’re already close enough to dock. No slow approach, no second thoughts. Just full speed ahead into the shadows of Ironclad.

The ferry lurches as it docks, the engines grinding to a slow, sputtering stop. The hull scrapes against the rubber bumpers lining the pier, a groan of metal and tension that sends a jolt up my spine.

I scan the dock, expecting to see Warden Sinclair or at least a guard. Nothing.

The ferry captain, grizzled and silent for the entire trip, stomps past me without so much as a glance. He doesn’t even wait for me to follow, striding down the gangway like he can’t get off this rock fast enough. I grab my bag and hurry after him, my heels clicking awkwardly on the weathered wood.

The breeze off the ocean is cool, almost pleasant, but sweat clings to the nape of my neck, prickling with each step. The heat is relentless now that we’ve stopped, and I regret my suit coat as I shift my bag from one hand to the other.

Still, there’s no one waiting for me. No formal welcome. No warden.

A faint creak pulls my attention to the far side of the dock. A man descends the weather-beaten steps that lead from the main compound, his pace unhurried. Like he hadn’t been told to expect me, or worse, like he doesn’t care.

I stiffen, brushing my jacket straight and setting my bag at my feet. My fingers itch to check my hair, but I stop myself. Professional. Neutral. That’s how I need to look.

Sinclair is supposed to be sharp, no-nonsense. I’ve read the files. A man of quick judgments.

I narrow my eyes against the blinding sun as the figure approaches. He’s tall, taller than I’d expected, and broad in a way that feels like a threat all on its own, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He’s not in a uniform. Not in a suit.

Jeans. A plain black T-shirt that clings to him just enough to show the strength underneath.

The sun ducks behind a cloud, and for the first time, I can make out his face.

Strong jawline, dark stubble that only sharpens the already harsh angles of his face.

His hair is dark, messy but not unkempt.

There’s a tattoo, yes, that’s definitely ink, creeping up the side of his neck, curling along his jaw like it’s daring you to look closer.

God, he’s… no.

I shake my head sharply.

I remind myself who I’m looking at.

Warden Sinclair. A man known for his cruelty. His leadership is responsible for turning Ironclad into the Warden’s Graveyard. Inmates dead, guards dead, rumors of experiments. The reports are endless.

And here I am, ogling him like a fool.

Shit.

He stops to speak with the ferry captain, his voice low and gravelly. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is commanding, like he’s used to getting what he wants, no questions asked.

My gaze lingers too long, caught on the ripple of his muscles under that damn T-shirt. On the way he stands, as if the world itself should make room for him.

He glances up from the clipboard the ferryman hands him, his sharp gaze cutting through the humid air straight to me.

Double shit.

The air feels heavier, the sun pressing harder against my back. His eyes linger a moment too long before his mouth twitches, barely a flicker, but it sends heat rushing to my cheeks. I look away.

Professional. Neutral. I repeat it to myself like a mantra.

But it’s impossible to ignore the sinking realization that this isn’t Warden Sinclair.

This man is something else entirely.

The captain strides past me without a word, brushing so close I nearly stumble. To him, I’m no more than another crate to unload.

The other man steps closer, and my throat dries.

He moves with a quiet confidence that makes it hard to look away. His arms are inked from wrist to bicep, a sleeve of black tattoos that seem to ripple with every shift of his muscles.

Maintenance, maybe?

But there’s no badge clipped to his shirt, no utility belt, no gun strapped to his hip.

They sent a maintenance man to greet me. An insult. Bastards.

I clench my jaw, steadying the flicker of indignation rising in my chest. Dare I give them the reaction they want?

Not a chance. Keeping my expression neutral, I lean down to grab my bag.

“Warden Sinclair is expecting me,” I say, my tone clipped. “If you can have the rest of my bags brought up with the supplies, please.”

The man’s gaze slides over me, slow and deliberate, and it feels like a touch. Rough. Like I’ve been pinned under calloused hands and manhandled.

“Miss…” His deep voice scrapes across my nerves as he glances down at the clipboard in his hands like I’m no different than the crates of canned food or dried beans stacked nearby.

“Doctor,” I snap, harsher than I intend. “Doctor Faith Wilson.”

His mouth quirks into a slow, devastating smile, and for a second, I forget the heat clinging to my skin. That smile shouldn’t belong to a man who fixes pipes or sweeps floors. It’s a weapon, sensual and disarming all at once.

“Faith,” he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. “Excuse me?”

“Get back on the ferry,” he says, the command sharp enough to make me take a half step back.

“The warden is expecting me,” I manage, squaring my shoulders.

He doesn’t budge. “The ferry.” His gaze flicks past me, toward the gangway, and one dark brow arches as if daring me to argue.

I dig my heels in. “I’ll speak with the warden myself.”

His jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath that perfect stubble. “This is no place for a woman,” he says, each word laced with irritation. “If you’re dead set on carrying out this ‘evaluation,’ send a man.”

What year is this?

“Who are you?” I demand, my pulse ticking faster, the heat of frustration rising in my chest.

“Dax Stryker,” he says simply, his name a challenge more than an introduction.

Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the air behind him.

“Dax!” A second man saunters to the edge of the dock, this one in jeans and a T-shirt too, tattoos sprawling haphazardly across his forearms and creeping up his neck. His presence is different, louder, rougher. There’s a sharper edge to the way he moves, like he thrives on chaos. “Need a hand?”

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering far too long. “What the hell did you order, and where’s mine?”

Unease prickles up my spine, but Dax doesn’t look back. His expression shifts instantly, his sharp, assessing stare turning cold as a blade.

“Mind your manners, Grip, or I’ll mind them for you,” Dax says, his tone as low and sharp as a growl.

The sudden edge in his voice sends a shiver racing across my skin, and I inhale sharply. Grip takes a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender with a crooked grin, but there’s a flicker of respect, or maybe fear, in his eyes.

This is no maintenance man.

The realization settles heavy in my stomach. Dax Stryker isn’t here to greet me. He’s an inmate.

I thought I understood what kind of place this was. What kind of people I’d be dealing with. But the sharp look in Dax Stryker’s eyes tells me I’ve got it all wrong.