Page 5

Dax

That son of a bitch sent her out alone.

If I had any doubt Sinclair wanted her hurt, or worse, it’s gone now. He didn’t even try to pretend. He might as well have slapped a target on her back.

“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up at me.

There’s no suspicion in her eyes, no fear or loathing. Just something quiet and genuine. Jesus, that’s new.

“Listen,” I say as we move toward the staff wing, my voice lower than I intend. “There are a few more things you need to understand about how things work around here.”

She looks ahead, her gaze sweeping the grounds, and I’m glad for it. She needs to stay aware, though it won’t do much good if someone’s decided to make her a problem.

“What do I need to know?” she asks, her tone calm. No panic, no hesitation. That’s good. Better than I expected. “I gather you’re someone they look up to.”

I snort softly, shaking my head. Look up to isn’t the right phrase. “Yeah,” I say. “If they believe I’ve decided you belong here, that’ll help.”

“Help?” She turns her eyes on me again, those piercing blues catching the faint glow of the overhead lights as we pass beneath them.

I hesitate, knowing the next words out of my mouth are going to sound worse than I mean them. But she needs to understand. “It’ll help more if they think I’m claiming first dibs.”

Her step falters slightly, and I bite back a curse. It sounds as shitty as I thought it would.

But it’s the truth. She’s not just a new face. She’s a woman . There’s no chance the rest of them are just going to ignore her.

A soft blush creeps across her cheeks, and she looks away. “What sort of staff are in the staff wing?” she asks, her brows pulling together in thought. “I was under the impression the inmates were the staff. Guards aside, I mean.”

I let her steer the conversation. I don’t blame her for wanting to move past the idea of being claimed by anyone. That kind of talk would put her off. She’s a world away from us. Hell, even before I was convicted, she would’ve been out of reach.

“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “The staff wing’s mostly empty except for the guards and whatever contractors Sinclair cycles through. Civilians don’t stick around long. Anyone else working here? That’s us.”

We pass a group of inmates lingering by the fence near the yard. One of them glances our way, mutters something I don’t catch, and another snickers. I shoot them a sharp look, and the laughter dies instantly.

Faith doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe she does, and she’s just smart enough not to react. Her shoulders stay squared, her head held high, and something about the way she keeps her pace steady makes my chest tighten. She’s got grit. I’ll give her that.

“Look,” I say as we near the staff wing, slowing my pace so she’s forced to look at me. “You need to know this place runs on one thing, power. You don’t have to swing a fist to show it, but you damn well better be ready to back yourself up.”

Her gaze flicks up to mine, steady and sharp. “I can handle myself.”

A muscle ticks in my jaw, but I let it go. Maybe she believes that. Hell, maybe it’s even true in most places. But not here. Not where survival depends on knowing the rules they don’t put in the damn handbook. She hasn’t been here long enough to understand what “handling yourself” really means.

“I’ve left your bags in the safest room,” I say.

Her breath catches slightly, just enough for me to know she hears the weight in that word. Safest. Not safe.

“Will you show me around the building?” she asks, her voice careful.

Shit. I would’ve offered if she hadn’t asked. “Yeah.”

We head through the building toward the staff wing entrance, the hallway dimly lit and smelling faintly of bleach and stale air.

The floors are scuffed to hell, worn from boots and dragged chairs, and the occasional muffled shout filters through the walls, reminding me we’re never more than a few steps away from trouble.

And of course, trouble is exactly what’s waiting at the door.

Quince.

That smug bastard leans against the frame like he owns the place, his uniform wrinkled, his boots scuffed, and his belt hanging loose like he can’t even be bothered to tighten it. His eyes light up when he sees us, but they don’t land on me.

“What are you bringing me, Stryker?” he drawls, his gaze dragging over her in a way that makes my blood boil. Not her face. He doesn’t even pretend to start there.

“She’s not for you,” I say, stepping closer to her. My hand goes to her back, steadying her before she has a chance to move.

Her fingers tighten on the folders in her arms, but she doesn’t step away. That scent of hers, soft, sweet, and completely out of place here, is going to drive me insane.

Quince snorts, the sound sharp and grating. “Just don’t knock it out of shape,” he says, his grin widening into something nastier. “I’ll take a hit on it later.”

Fucking hell. It’s all I can do not to snap his neck right here. My hand flexes against her back, and for a second, I swear I feel her shift closer to me.

“She isn’t for you,” I repeat, my voice colder this time.

Quince raises a brow, pushing himself off the doorframe like he’s considering testing me. I step forward just enough to make it clear he shouldn’t.

His grin falters slightly, but he covers it with a shrug. “Relax, Stryker. Just joking.”

Bullshit. Quince doesn’t joke. He says what he means and hides it behind that greasy grin of his.

I guide her through the entrance, keeping my hand on her back as the door swings shut behind us.

The wing is quiet, too quiet. The hall smells faintly of damp concrete and cleaning chemicals, but the silence presses in, heavy and unnatural. Most of the lights overhead are flickering, buzzing faintly, casting uneven patches of yellow-white light down the corridor.

“How am I supposed to drop you off with Quince at the door?” I mutter, more to myself than to her.

She glances up at me, those sharp blue eyes studying me like she’s trying to figure me out. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say, brushing it off. No point in making her more nervous than she already is.

As we walk, I point out the rooms she might need. “That’s chow, though you’d do better to eat with us.”

She nods, her gaze steady on me, and something about the way she holds me there almost undoes me. Trust. Is that what it is? I hope not. She can’t trust me. She can’t trust any of us.

“Have I missed dinner?” she asks.

“I’ll see you haven’t,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intend. I nod toward another door. “Showers are there. This is an all-male facility.” I hesitate, jaw tightening before I add, “I’ll stand guard.”

“I appreciate that,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

Probably remembering Quince. Precisely why I’ll stand guard every damn time she needs a shower. I just hope I’m not the bastard she ends up needing protection from.

After one more turn, we reach the hall with the rooms. I stop outside hers, nudging the door open with my shoulder. It’s nothing fancy. None of them are. A twin bed, a cheap wooden dresser, a plastic chair at a table that doubles as a desk. No window. That last part was deliberate. My choice.

She steps inside and sets her files down on the table, then turns back to me. Her eyes sweep over me again, calm and unflinching. She’s not afraid. Alone with me, the last guard we passed several turns ago. She should be.

Foolish, foolish woman.

I step inside. I need to linger. Quince needs to see this and get it through his thick skull that she’s off limits. Mine.

“You got questions for me?” I ask, keeping my tone flat. “For your evaluation.” I reach back and pull the door closed, just in case Quince is strolling by.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move to open it. Doesn’t look the least bit nervous.

What the hell is wrong with her?

I scan the room, then glance back at her. I’m going to have to stay on top of her. There isn’t a single man here, inmate or otherwise, who wouldn’t have tossed her onto that bed already. If they were even that kind about it.

“I do. A lot of questions,” she says, her tone steady. “We can do it later, if you still need to eat as well.”

So considerate. Like she thinks I’m still human.

“I got time,” I say. “I’ll eat with you after.” Maybe public will be better. Our first date. Drive away any doubts about whose she is.

She turns her back on me and starts digging in her bag, pulling out a notepad. Her gaze flicks to the plastic chair, and she frowns. Then she looks at the bed. “I’m afraid I don’t have a very inviting room. The warden said there were meeting rooms I could use.”

Not inviting. Shit. She’s got no idea. I exhale hard through my nose, fighting the tension coiling in my chest. This room is too small. Too close. I need to get us the hell out before I do something stupid.

I step back and open the door.

Before I can say anything, Grip comes barreling down the hall, loud enough to rattle the damn walls. “Dax! It’s that fuckwit Pauly.”

I close my eyes, grinding my teeth. “What’s he done?”

“Sick as shit,” Grip says, throwing his hands up. “Don’t know what he got in, but it’s bad. Chucked all over the table. Started a brawl in chow.”

“Brawl?” I bark, already moving. My fists clench as the familiar frustration and rage rise up.

But as I glance back at her, it hits me like a brick. I can’t leave her here. Not with Quince. Not anywhere. She’s not safe in this room. She’s not safe anywhere.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see it. She knows. She understands.

“I’ll come with you,” she says, her voice calm. “Observe. This is why I’m here. I’ll stay back.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

“You’ll stay the hell back, but not out of my sight. Clear?” My voice comes out harsher than I mean, but I don’t care. I turn to Grip. “She’s mine. Got it?”

Grip raises his hands, his grin fading. “Got it.”

Her lips press together, but she doesn’t argue. Just nods.

I exhale sharply and step into the hall, already bracing for whatever fresh hell Pauly’s gotten himself into.