Page 24

Faith

Dax walks into the office, drawing my attention like a magnet. His gait is better today, his color stronger. He looks… alive.

“You can come out now,” he says.

I don’t move.

I want to stay mad.

Did it piss me off that he locked me away while they finished the final zombie sweep? Yes.

Did it really fucking annoy me that he ordered me to stay here while everyone else tossed bodies into the ocean? Absolutely.

Did it burn my ass that he left Zachs to babysit me because he didn’t think I’d listen? More than anything.

But it’s hard to glare at a man who nearly died.

I settle for crossing my arms, leaning back against the desk like I’m not still holding on to the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the everything of the last forty-eight hours.

Dax smirks. “You gonna pout?”

“You should be in bed,” I say, ignoring the way his voice slides under my skin, smooth as whiskey.

His smirk deepens. “Only if you’re feeling frisky.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He nods like it’s a fact. “And yet, I’m still in charge.”

That shouldn’t make me want to kiss him.

He crosses the room, stopping just close enough that I have to tilt my head to keep his gaze. “We’ve got an inventory and new building assignments.” His voice is all business now, but his eyes are still on me. Only me.

“You’re with me, Wilkes, Zachs, and Trip in the brass wing.”

He’s back to running things. Just like the day I arrived.

But I’m not the same woman I was when I stepped onto this island. And Dax isn’t just some inmate anymore.

“Not in Sinclair’s room,” I say.

“No, sweetheart.” His voice drops, low and steady, a promise wrapped in rough edges. A vow. “Not in Sinclair’s room.”

The tension coiled in my chest unwinds just a little. I nod, shifting my weight. “The boat?”

“Trip’s on it. It’s fucked, but he’ll fix it,” he says.

I should feel relief. The island is secure. The dead are dead. We have food, weapons, and a plan. And yet…

The room suddenly feels too small. Too charged.

I glance up at him, at the sharp cut of his jaw, the heat in his eyes.

He’s watching me.

I don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s him, closing the space between us, caging me in with his presence, his heat, his need. Or maybe it’s me, grabbing the front of his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him forward, needing to feel every hard inch of him against me.

His mouth crashes into mine, and everything disappears.

The exhaustion. The blood. The bodies.

There’s only Dax.

His hands are rough, demanding, owning every inch of me like I was made to fit beneath them. He grips my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing, like I’m exactly where I belong, pinned beneath him, against him, against this desk.

The edge digs into my thighs, but I don’t care. I spread my legs wider, pulling him closer, harder, grinding against him.

He groans, low and guttural, pressing against me, his cock straining against his jeans, thick and ready.

“Still think I should be in bed?” he rasps against my lips.

I nip his bottom lip, dragging my nails down his back. I want him to lose control. I need him to. “I think you should shut up.”

His dark chuckle vibrates against my throat. “Make me.”

I kiss him hard, messy, breathless, biting at his lips like I want to devour him. His grip tightens, fingers bruising into my hips as he rocks against me, pushing his cock right where I need him most.

The ache turns sharp. Desperate.

He snaps.

Dax tears at my shirt, yanking it over my head. My bra follows, and his mouth is on me before the lace hits the floor. He bites at my breast, tongue soothing the sting before his lips close around my nipple, sucking deep and slow.

I arch into him, gasping. “Fuck, Dax.”

“Say it.” His voice is a gravelly command, dark and raw. His hand slides down my stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of my pants, slipping beneath just enough to make me whimper. “Tell me you need this as bad as I do.”

I whimper again, back arching as he teases, just barely grazing where I’m dripping for him. “Dax,” I breathe, rolling my hips, chasing his fingers. “I need you.”

His sharp inhale is followed by a growl of approval.

He rips my pants down my legs. Not slow. Not careful.

I’m bare for him, skin burning under the intensity of his stare.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I hook my legs around his waist, pulling him between my thighs, grinding against the thick ridge of his cock.

His control shatters.

His jeans hit the floor, and then he’s on me. Over me. Inside me.

The first thrust steals my breath. The second sets me on fire.

His hands pin my wrists above my head, his body pressed deep into mine. Every thrust claims. Every snap of his hips tells me I’m his.

I don’t hold back. I take it. I meet him.

My nails rake down his back.

His teeth scrape my throat.

The desk shudders beneath us, papers scattering, falling like fucking ashes.

His pace is relentless. His fingers find my clit, rub tight circles, pushing me higher, harder, until I shatter.

The orgasm blindsides me, rips me apart, drags him down with me.

He groans into my skin, hips driving deep one last time as he comes with a shudder that wrecks us both.

For a long moment, nothing moves. Nothing exists.

Only our ragged breaths, tangled limbs, and the world spinning back into place.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, burning with something more than just sex.

Something dangerous. Something permanent.

I cup his face, brushing my thumb over the rough stubble at his jaw.

He leans into it. Just for a second.

Then…

A knock.

“Dax!” Wilkes’ voice is sharp. “You’re gonna wanna get the fuck out here.”

Dax’s whole body tenses. The shift is instant.

The world crashes back in.

I groan, flopping back against the desk. “Of course.”

He smirks, breath still uneven. “Didn’t take long.”

We untangle, reaching for our clothes.

Before I can button my shirt, he catches my wrist.

The intensity in his gaze stops my breath.

His voice drops, low and firm. “You’re mine.”

No hesitation. No question. Just fact.

I don’t blink. Don’t even breathe.

Then I smirk. “Damn straight.”