Page 3

Faith

“You’ll need to leave them here,” the guard at the main gate says, his tone clipped and dismissive as he gestures to my bags.

“All of them?” I ask, though it comes out sounding more like a frustrated objection than an actual question.

The guard doesn’t answer, his harsh, cynical gaze sliding over me like I’m just another nuisance he has to deal with.

At my side, Dax shifts, his shoulders tight as he sets my bags down on the cracked asphalt. “Give me your purse,” he says, his voice low.

I turn to him, startled. There’s something in his eyes, though, something steady, almost grounding. It’s the same look he gave me at the docks, the same unspoken warning in the way he stood between me and Grip.

Somewhere deep down, I know I should be afraid of him. But right now, with the guard’s eyes still on me like he’s waiting for me to screw up, Dax feels more like an ally than he has any right to be.

Without a word, I hand Dax my purse.

He unzips it without hesitation, dumping the contents onto the rickety metal table in front of us. My cheeks flush with anger, and when his rough, calloused hands start rummaging through my things, the flush turns into full-blown heat.

He unzips the inner pockets, tugging out everything: lipstick, breath mints, a travel-size packet of tissues, a box of painkillers, a single, crumpled sock I’d forgotten about, and, God help me, birth control pills.

I stare straight ahead, my jaw tightening as the guard lets out a low chuckle. I meet his gaze, and the cruelty in his eyes is enough to send a cold shiver racing down my spine. He’s enjoying this.

Dax’s hands pause for half a second, his body going still when he pulls out the pills. His jaw ticks once before he shoves everything back into the bag. If he’s embarrassed for me, he doesn’t show it.

He thrusts my purse back into my hands, his voice even. “Do I need to go through them all?”

The guard’s grin spreads slow and wide, like a wolf baring its teeth. “Yeah. Can’t be too careful.” He steps closer, the smell of cigarettes and stale coffee rolling off him like a fog. “I’ll frisk her.”

Dax stiffens beside me. The air between us changes, sharp and heavy, like the quiet just before a storm. “Why don’t I?” Dax says, his voice deceptively calm. “You can thoroughly search her bags instead.”

The guard shakes his head, clearly enjoying the way I tense at his suggestion. “Dump them out,” he says, his attention never leaving me.

I step back, my hand tightening around the strap of my purse. My eyes flick down to his uniform, searching for a name. O’Connor. He’ll go in my report. Every single thing about this will go in my report.

Dax drops to a crouch, already unpacking the first bag with methodical efficiency. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel the fury radiating off him in waves. His shoulders are tight, his jaw locked, and his hands work faster than they should, the tension in him coiled tight as barbed wire.

O’Connor steps closer. He unbuttons my coat with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing my collarbone. I flinch at the unwanted contact, jerking my gaze away from him. When I do, I accidentally lock eyes with Dax.

The storm I’d sensed brewing in him is written across his face now. His jaw is so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if he cracked a tooth.

O’Connor’s hands slip beneath my coat, rough fingers pressing along my ribs. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I force myself to stay still, my breath coming faster despite my best efforts.

His hands slide lower, moving down my waist and toward my hips. His touch lingers too long, and when he dips lower, brushing against my thighs, the air freezes in my lungs.

The scent of him, coffee, sweat, cigarettes, turns my stomach.

I flick my gaze to Dax again, desperate for something to focus on. His hands have stopped moving. He’s crouched over my bag, his head down, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders or the way his fists clench, knuckles white.

O’Connor doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even care. His hands glide higher, grazing my inner thigh, and I jerk back a step, my breath hitching.

“That’s enough,” Dax says, his voice low and deadly.

O’Connor glances over, arching a brow. “Relax, Stryker. Just doing my job.”

“No.” Dax rises slowly, his full height towering over the other man. His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but no less dangerous. “You’re pushing your luck.”

The two men lock eyes, and I can feel the tension in the air, sharp as broken glass. Dax doesn’t move, but there’s something about the way he stands, his fists loose at his sides, his shoulders squared, that makes O’Connor hesitate.

“Whatever,” O’Connor mutters, stepping back like it was his idea. “She’s clear.”

Dax doesn’t respond. He just keeps his gaze locked on O’Connor, his jaw tight, until O’Connor finally turns away.

I tug my coat closed, my cheeks burning as I take a shaky breath.

“Let’s go,” Dax says, his voice clipped as he picks up the last of my bags. He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the tension still etched into his features.

I fall into step behind him, my heart pounding harder than it should.

The gates clang shut behind us, locking me into a world that feels far too open and far too confined all at once.

Inside the compound, the outer yard stretches out in uneven patches of cracked asphalt and trampled dirt.

Inmates move in clusters, some working to unload crates of supplies, others sitting idle in the shade of the buildings.

A few toss a basketball toward a rusted hoop with more missing pieces than intact ones.

The air is thick with salt and sweat, and every pair of eyes turns toward me as we walk past.

The first group we pass is standing near a set of barrels, their conversation dropping to a murmur as I approach. One man leans against the barrel, tattoos disappearing under his shirt sleeves, his grin sharp and predatory as he looks me up and down.

Dax doesn’t stop, doesn’t say a word, but his stride slows just enough for the man to notice. That small movement alone is enough to erase the grin from his face.

The man straightens, nudging the guy next to him. They both turn their attention elsewhere.

My stomach tightens as I realize how quiet the yard is getting. Conversations drift off wherever we go, replaced by watchful, sidelong glances.

Ahead, a group of guards leans against the wall of a low building, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They don’t look like they’re paying much attention, but one of them, his uniform wrinkled, his belt unbuckled, tips his chin at Dax in greeting.

“Busy day, Stryker?” he asks, the words casual but edged with something sharper.

Dax doesn’t bother answering, and the guard smirks before turning his gaze to me. His eyes linger, dropping from my face to my legs, and I fight the urge to button my coat all the way up.

“She’s not your type, Henderson,” Dax says, his tone flat.

Henderson flinches at the use of his name, his smirk faltering.

The farther we walk, the harder it is to shake the feeling of being surrounded.

Inmates lean against railings, stare from open windows, and stand half-hidden in the shadows of the buildings.

Their attention isn’t loud, no catcalls, no whistles.

Just the weight of too many eyes, the kind of watching that presses against your skin and makes your pulse pick up.

I force myself to keep my head high, even when my legs feel unsteady.

“You shouldn’t stare back,” Dax says under his breath, his voice quiet enough that only I can hear.

I bristle but don’t reply, my gaze darting to the set of steps ahead that lead into a larger building.

When we reach the entrance, an argument breaks out behind us. Two inmates square off near the edge of the yard, shoving each other, their voices rising.

Dax stops, turning just enough to glance back. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t take a step closer. He just looks .

Whatever the fight is about, it fizzles in seconds. One of the men raises his hands, muttering something I can’t hear, and walks off. The other turns his back on us, spitting curses under his breath.

Dax keeps moving.

By the time we reach the administrative building, the tension hasn’t left my chest. If anything, it has only gotten worse.

The guards at the door nod at Dax and step aside, their movements sharp and efficient.

As we pass, one of them mutters under his breath, loud enough for us both to hear. “That’s a sweet piece.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, but I keep walking, refusing to let the words stick.

Inside, the air shifts. The salty breeze is gone, replaced by something heavier, dust and stale smoke. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker faintly, casting a cold glow over the narrow hallway.

The halls are mostly empty. The faint hum of machinery echoes in the distance, but the only people we pass are a few guards and a single inmate. He’s older, frail-looking, and hunched over as he sweeps the floor. The broom handle is worn smooth, like it’s been gripped for decades.

Dax brushes his hand against my arm, catching my attention. The touch is brief, but it pulls my focus sharply to him. His voice is low when he speaks, but the warning in it is clear. “Don’t challenge him.”

I know immediately who he means.

I swallow hard and nod, my mouth suddenly dry.

At the end of the hall, a door stands open.

The tension I’ve felt since stepping off the ferry tightens into something sharper, heavier. My stomach twists as I realize this is it, my first impression on the man I’ve been sent to take down.

The warden.

Sinclair’s office is everything I expect and nothing like it at the same time.

The space is large but feels cramped, like it’s suffocating under its own weight.

The massive desk dominates the room, its surface cluttered with neatly stacked papers, ledgers, and folders.

A phone sits at the edge, cord twisted and knotted, while an ashtray on the corner holds a smoldering cigar.

The thick, acrid scent hangs in the air, clinging to my lungs with every breath.

But it’s the man behind the desk who holds my attention.

Sinclair rises as we step in, his presence filling the room as easily as Dax’s had on the dock.

He’s clean-cut and clean-shaven, his salt-and-pepper buzz cut giving him an air of precision and control.

Steel-gray eyes bore into me, cool and assessing, as if he’s already cataloged every weakness I have in the span of a single glance.

“Take her things to the staff wing,” Sinclair says to Dax, his tone brisk and commanding. “She’ll find her way there when we’re done.”

The staff wing. There’s something off about the way the words linger in the air.

I clutch the strap of my purse tighter, unsure why the gesture feels necessary. My fingers dig into the leather as I turn to Dax, handing him the small bag that’s still in my grasp.

He takes it without a word, the muscles in his arm flexing briefly as he adjusts the weight of the other bags he’s already carrying. His gaze flicks to mine, brief, unreadable, and then he steps back, leaving me with Sinclair.

The door shuts behind him, and the silence that follows is suffocating.

For a moment, Sinclair doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches me like a predator waiting to see how its prey will react.

I lift my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze. I’ve faced worse than this. I’ve stared murderers in the eye and walked away untouched.

But there’s something about Sinclair.

His calm. His precision. His complete lack of emotion.

I came here to find the monster in charge of this place. I think I just did.