Page 17

Faith

I follow Sinclair through the halls, forcing myself to memorize every turn. Right, then two lefts.

The layout isn’t like the rest of the prison.

It’s cleaner, quieter. A different world from the filth and blood outside.

The walls here aren’t lined with peeling paint or rusted bars.

Instead, the floors are polished, the lighting softer, like I’ve stepped into an upscale office building instead of the last place I want to be.

I try to guess the time. It has to be near morning. Would the light make it easier for Dax and the others to fight the zombies? Or would it just make them easier to see?

Sinclair stops at a door and pushes it open, shoving me inside.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe something cold and utilitarian, like the rest of the prison. Something stark and emotionless. But this?

This is luxury.

The furniture is dark leather, deep wood, expensive. A full bar lines the wall, bottles of whiskey and rum gleaming under soft lighting. There’s a plush rug underfoot, thick enough that it muffles sound, a large bed against the far wall that looks like it belongs in a penthouse, not a prison.

It’s too refined for such a hard man.

It makes my skin crawl.

Sinclair leaves the door open behind him, like he doesn’t care who walks by. Like he wouldn’t mind the audience.

His eyes sweep over me, reminding me what I already know. I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my bra.

“This is why you came here, isn’t it?” he muses, toying with me. “You spread your legs for Dax the first chance you got.”

I bristle but keep my face composed.

He’s looking for a reaction. I won’t give him one.

His smirk deepens when I don’t respond. “Do you prefer to be treated like an animal? Is that why you work with the inmates? You like it rough?”

I force myself to breathe. To take him in like I’m considering his words when I’m really cataloging his weapons. Holster at his hip, not buckled in. Knife secured only with a snap.

I let my eyes drag over him slowly. Lecherously. I meet his gaze and let my lips part, just enough to be suggestive.

“Let me treat you like you deserve,” I murmur. I step forward.

His reaction is measured, controlled. He’s not stupid. He’s not the kind of man who makes mistakes.

He lets me get close.

I lower to my knees, keeping my breathing steady as I work his belt.

His expression doesn’t shift to lust. This isn’t desire. It’s something colder. Crueler.

He’s going to let me take this as far as I will, knowing, thinking, he’s in control.

His pants slide down. The holster is within reach. The knife, closer.

One shot.

I just need to take it.

His eyes are on me. Too sharp.

Will I make it to the gun?

I tilt my gaze up at him, moving slow, measured, the picture of submission. It gives me a better look at the other piece, a slight bulge under his uniform top. Shoulder holster. Shit.

A backup weapon. I can’t risk him going for it.

I will myself to do what’s needed. A touch. A distraction. My fingers skim up his thigh, featherlight, coaxing. Close your fucking eyes. Let your guard down. Make this easy for me.

He doesn’t even react. No smug grin, no shift of his weight, no indication that he’s relaxing into my touch.

Fine. Animal.

Rough it is.

I strike fast, wrapping my fingers around his crotch and squeezing hard.

The reaction is instant. A choked grunt rips from his throat, his whole body locking up as pure pain paralyzes him. His hands twitch toward me, but I already have my stolen second.

I snatch the gun from his waistband, flick the safety off, and fire.

The shot explodes through the room. His head jerks back, body staggering before it crumples to the floor.

The silence that follows isn’t really silence.

My ears are ringing, a high-pitched whine cutting through everything. I know I should move, but for a second, I just stare at him.

I killed him.

No time to think. No time to feel.

Everyone would have heard that.

I push forward, my body moving before my brain can catch up. I kneel, my hands only slightly trembling as I strip him of his shoulder holster, yank the second gun free. I shove it into my waistband, grab the knife next.

Take everything. Leave him with nothing.

The gun I killed him with is still in my hand. My knuckles are white from gripping it too hard. I take a deep breath and force myself to move.

Clothes. I need a shirt.

I run to the closet and yank out the first thing I touch, pulling it over my head. Like modesty matters after what I just did.

I just crushed his balls and then blew his brains out.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat. It’s sharp, ugly. Almost unhinged.

Not the blowjob he had in mind.

Shots echo in the distance.

For a second, I think they’re ghosts, an aftershock of what I’ve just done. The crack of the gun, the way Sinclair’s body jerked, the scent of blood and burned gunpowder still thick in my nose.

Then I hear another round, closer. Real. Immediate.

I’ve got to get out of here. Shit. The doors are locked.

I shove the gun in my waistband, drop to my knees beside Sinclair, and start stripping him down like a vulture. His pockets, his belt, anything clipped to him, I take it all.

A key. A pass card. A second knife tucked near his boot. Anything that might be useful to Dax.

When I stand, I turn—

And my heart stops.

Zachs.

He’s leaning in the doorway, casual as hell, eyes flicking from Sinclair’s corpse, pants around his ankles, brains painting the ceiling, back to me.

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Come on,” he says, voice smooth as silk.

My hand moves toward my waist.

His brows pinch in something like disappointment. “Doc, seriously? Let’s get the fuck out of here before anyone else stumbles in.”

My brain stalls.

I should move. Run. Follow. Shoot. Something. But I don’t know what the hell he is to me yet. I grip the gun tighter and point it at his chest. “You…”

“Came to save the day.” His tone is light. Too light. He nods at Sinclair. “Sorry I was late. Wilkes and Dax are in the armory. There are still loyal guards on the island. Let’s go.”

I don’t move.

My pulse is roaring in my ears, drowning out everything but the moment hanging between us. Trust him or kill him.

“Touch me,” I say, “And I’ll blow your brains out.”

His lips twitch. Then, a dimple.

A fucking dimple. Who the hell is this guy?

He gestures to the hall like this is just another Tuesday. “After you.”

I should kill him.

I should.

Instead, I step past him into the hall, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. “What happened to the other guards?” I ask.

“I shot them.” His tone is matter-of-fact. Like he’s listing groceries.

I don’t react fast enough before he adds, “Stabbed two. Shot the rest.”

“Oh.” Oh . I try to sound casual, unaffected. I fail. “How did you shoot a whole room of armed guards?”

“They had it coming,” he says.

“That… doesn’t answer my question.”

We reach the stairwell. He pushes the door open like he already knows I’m going to follow.

I hesitate. Basement? Armory? The depths of hell?

I flick my eyes to him.

The guards called him a psycho.

He watches me, waiting. That smile still easy. That dimple still visible.

The kind of face that could lead you anywhere.

I glance down the stairs. Do I follow?

A sound rumbles through the stairwell, deep, familiar, grounding.

Dax.

He’s safe.

I forget Zachs entirely. I take the steps two at a time, then three, nearly stumbling in my rush to get to him.

Zachs’ laughter chases me from below, but I don’t care.

I shove through the door, and my brain registers gunmetal, racks, crates, the scent of oil and steel, but none of it matters.

The room is full, Wilkes, a few other guards, Trip, Grip, but I don’t see them.

I see Dax.

And then I’m moving, weightless, breathless.

His hands are on me before I can reach him, gripping, lifting, pulling me in. I wrap my legs around his waist, arms around his neck, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

Because right now, he is.

He kisses me like he needs it. Like he hasn’t drawn a full breath since we were separated. His hands flex at my back, holding me tight, his lips fierce, unrelenting, real.

For a moment, there’s nothing else. No guards, no zombies, no fucking apocalypse.

Just Dax.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath hot and uneven. His grip on me doesn’t loosen.

“I told you to stay in solitary, woman,” he mutters, voice rough, accusing, but too damn relieved to sound angry.

My feet find the ground, but his hands linger.

“You’re not the boss of me,” I say, shoving lightly at his chest. Then, more serious, quieter, “Zachs is sketchy as hell.”

Laughter erupts around us, Wilkes, Grip, even Trip gives a knowing grunt.

Zachs strolls in behind me, dimple flashing, completely unbothered. “She shot him.”

Dax’s grip on me tightens. The look he gives me is like he wants to pin me against the nearest gun rack and lose his goddamn mind.

“Sinclair’s dead,” I confirm, watching the sharp, satisfied tilt of Dax’s mouth.

His voice is dark, approving. “That’s my girl.”

My breath hitches, but I don’t have time to unravel over that because I need answers.

“Zombies? Survivors?” I ask, scanning the room, already bracing for whatever comes next.