Page 8

Faith

Dax dumps the tray at the edge of the yard and takes my hand, his grip firm and unrelenting as he pulls me across the field.

My mind races faster than my feet. What the hell just happened? And why did it disappoint me when it stopped?

The warmth of his hand burns through my skin, his fingers curling around mine like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I open my mouth to say something, but the words catch in my throat. Never, not in all my years working with inmates, have I felt drawn to any of them. Not like this. Not enough to even think about acting on it.

And yet, here I am.

“Dax,” I start, my voice soft, unsteady. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Yes, you should have,” he says simply, cutting me off.

His tone is calm, matter-of-fact, but there’s a weight to it that makes my pulse stutter.

He’s trying to protect me. I know that. He’s only acting like this because he thinks I need saving, and I’m enjoying it . That’s taking advantage of him, isn’t it?

“I took it too far,” I say, my voice almost a whisper.

“Not yet, you haven’t.” His words are low and rough, and they spark something I have no business feeling.

Is this more than wanting to keep me from getting hurt?

When he glances back at me, his dark eyes locking on mine, I feel like I have my answer. Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.

Want.

The word echoes in my mind like a confession I’m not ready to say out loud. Want? Dax.

We near the staff wing, and I force myself to look away, trying to steady my breathing. But then Quince steps into view.

His gaze sweeps over us, his lips curling into a smirk that makes my stomach churn.

Dax moves instantly, stepping between us in one fluid motion, his hand releasing mine.

Before I can process what’s happening, he slams the butt of his palm into Quince’s chest with enough force to make the guard stumble back a step.

Quince sucks in a sharp breath, his face twisting in anger. “Filthy…”

Dax’s hand snaps out, drawing the pistol from Quince’s waistband in one smooth motion, and presses the barrel hard against his jaw.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you what happens when you fuck with my things,” Dax growls, his voice low and deadly. “You starting to remember now, boy?”

Quince’s bravado crumbles, his eyes flicking down as he nods quickly. “Yeah.”

Dax leans in closer, his grip on the pistol tightening. “Get your shit together,” he says, his voice ice-cold, “And don’t let me catch your eyes on my woman again, or I’ll rip them out and choke you with them.”

The words are calm. Almost casual. But the weight behind them makes my legs go numb.

Quince swallows hard, his face pale, and nods again.

Dax shoves the gun roughly back into Quince’s waistband, his jaw clenched tight.

Quince stumbles backward, his gaze glued to the ground, and doesn’t dare look up again as we step past him and through the door.

My legs feel like they might give out beneath me, but Dax’s hand finds my waist the moment we’re inside, steadying me.

It feels right there. Still. Good. Safe.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Dax is here for a reason. He’s a killer. And yet, nothing about his touch makes me feel afraid.

We reach my room, and he steps in first, his body tense, his gaze sweeping over the small space like he’s expecting someone to be waiting in the shadows.

It’s not until he checks the corners, his shoulders relaxing slightly, that he turns back to me. He pulls me inside and closes the door firmly behind us.

The click of the lock echoes in the small space, and I can feel my pulse in my throat.

“Thank you, I’ll be okay,” I say, trying to steady my voice.

His eyes don’t leave mine. Hungry, intense, devouring.

I know that look. I feel that hunger. Shit.

“You can go. I’m sure you have things to do,” I add quickly, the words rushing out before I can stop them. Rambling. I’m rambling. Me, the therapist, unnerved.

I square my shoulders, trying to pull myself together. Dax would approve of that, wouldn’t he?

The faint twitch at the corner of his lips tells me I’m right. He approves of something.

“I’m not leaving you alone in here,” he says, his voice low and firm. “Quince is handled. But he’s a minor nuisance compared to the others.”

“You can’t sit on me for a month,” I argue, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “The men will never open up to me with you standing at my side.”

He looks amused at first, but that fades quickly. His jaw tightens, and there’s something else there now, something darker. He’s fighting for control. I can see it in the way his hands flex at his sides.

“I’ll give you space to work, Faith,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “But understand me, you are not to be out of my line of sight.”

“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

His gaze sharpens, locking on me.

“About what happened,” I start, my voice faltering.

He wets his lips, and the simple motion makes my stomach flip. “You were frightened? Is that it?”

I can’t believe I shake my head. But I do. “No.”

“Be careful with what you say,” he warns, stepping just a little closer. “You want to finish what we started?”

Shit. Don’t say yes.

But the word dances on the tip of my tongue as I meet his eyes. My lips part, and I wet them nervously. It’s been way too long. And I’ve never had a man like Dax. All man.

“That’s really inappropriate,” I whisper.

His laugh is gasoline on the fire I’m barely controlling. Low, rough, and hot. “That’s not what I asked.”

I swallow hard. With Dax, it won’t stop at a kiss. That much I know.

I take a step closer, and I see his muscles tense, his shoulders tight like a predator ready to pounce.

“Say it,” he says, his voice commanding, daring me.

No. No. He’s going to wreck me. That thought sends my pulse racing, my body heating in ways I can’t stop. “Yes,” I whisper.

His eyes flash with something dangerous, and he moves into my space, erasing the distance between us.

“Yes, what?” he presses, his tone demanding, almost feral.

I hesitate, but only for a moment. Then I lift my hand and place it on his waist, my fingers curling into his shirt. The heat of his body seeps into my palm, grounding me and setting me alight all at once.

“I want you,” I breathe, the words barely audible. Then I lean in, rolling up onto my toes, and let my nose brush against the rough skin of his neck. “Dax, I want you.”

The sound he makes is low and primal, vibrating through me like a shockwave.

Before I can think, his hands are on me, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, locking tight as he carries me to the bed.

Every step feels deliberate, his grip firm but controlled, and the tension in his body tells me just how close he is to losing that control.

He stops just at the edge of the bed, his dark eyes blazing as they meet mine. “Undress,” he says, his voice rough with command. “Slowly.”

My fingers tremble slightly as I reach for the hem of my shirt, peeling it off with deliberate slowness. The cool air kisses my bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his stare.

His hands move to the hem of his shirt, and he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.

I swallow hard. His chest, like his arms and neck, is covered in tattoos.

Thick black designs snake over his muscles, sharp and purposeful, each one drawing my eye to the unrelenting strength beneath them.

His body is all solid muscle, scarred and powerful.

I have the sudden, irrational urge to trace every line with my tongue.

He sees it. “Keep going,” he rasps.

My throat dries as I lift my own shirt over my head, the cool air brushing over my skin.

His gaze locks on my bra, and the heat in his eyes is enough to make my knees weak.

It’s nothing special, just white lace, but the way he looks at me makes it feel like I’m wearing the most seductive thing he’s ever seen. His jaw tightens, and the tension in his body winds tighter, his restraint a visible strain.

His expression says he’s seconds from tearing it off with his teeth. God help me, I wish he would.

My fingers tremble slightly as I reach behind me and unclasp the hooks. The straps slide from my shoulders, and the lace rolls off, falling forgotten to the floor.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His eyes drag over me, dark and intense, like he’s memorizing every inch of skin, every curve.

“The time to say no is passing,” he warns, his voice rough and low, vibrating through the air between us.

“Take off your pants,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the fire roaring inside me. “Slowly.”

His lips curve into the barest hint of a smile, a dangerous promise in his eyes. He bites his bottom lip, drawing my attention, and then his fingers move to the button of his jeans.

He unfastens it with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving mine. The sound of the zipper sliding down fills the room, achingly slow and torturous, and my breath catches as his jeans hang low on his hips.

For a moment, I forget my own task, completely frozen as I watch him.

Then, as his jeans slide down his thighs, my fingers remember their purpose. I work at the button of my pants, tugging them down as his jeans hit the floor.

He stands before me, bare and ready, the hunger in his eyes matched by the strength of his body. My breath stutters. I may not be ready for him, but there’s no part of me that’s willing to stop now.

I let my pants fall, pooling at my feet, and roll my panties down my legs without even looking at them. The heat in his gaze doesn’t falter for a second.

He steps into my space, and my heart pounds as his scent wraps around me. He smells like leather, skin, and something darker, something dangerous in the best possible way.

“You want me?” he asks, his voice a deep growl.

This is it. My last chance to be reasonable.

“Get in the bed, Dax.”

His lips twitch into a small, satisfied smile, but he obeys, moving to the bed. He lowers himself onto the mattress, laying back on the sheet, his muscles flexing as he rests against it. Even like this, stretched out beneath me, he looks like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

I climb onto the bed, crawling over him, bracketing him between my thighs. The tension in his jaw is visible, his restraint fraying at the edges, and the knowledge that I am the one unraveling him sends a thrill through me.

His hands stay at his sides, his fists clenched, his control nothing short of impressive.

I take his hands, placing one at my hip and the other on my breast. His fingers twitch against my skin, and I lean into him, letting my body fit against his. “Touch me,” I whisper, my voice low and breathless.

Something snaps in him.

His hands grip me hard, rough and possessive, his control breaking as he pulls me against him. The heat of his palms on my skin sets me on fire, and I gasp as his mouth finds my neck, his stubble scraping along my jaw before his lips cover my throat.

My hands splay across his chest, tracing the tattoos and the hard lines of muscle beneath them as I move against him. He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through both of us, and his fingers tighten on my hips, guiding me as I find my rhythm.

Every movement, every touch, is electric, the tension between us snapping like a live wire.

“Faith,” he murmurs, his voice raw, guttural, and when I look into his eyes, I see nothing but possession.

I am his now.