Page 9

Dax

When she throws her head back and my name falls from her lips, there’s nothing left. No past. No prison. No sins. Just her.

I feel her tighten, her whole body trembling beneath me, and fuck, I need more. I grip her hips, my hands firm, holding her in place as I drive deeper, chasing the way she shudders and falls apart in my hands.

Her cry is sharp, breathless, mine.

I lean in, capturing her lips, stealing the last of her breath as she melts into me. She’s soft and warm and so fucking perfect it makes my chest ache.

But I don’t slow down. Not yet.

I roll, pressing her beneath me, pinning her to the mattress as I kiss along her throat, down to the delicate curve of her collarbone. She’s so damn fragile under my mouth. For a second, I almost lose it.

I don’t make love to her. Not this time. This is something else. This is possession.

This is me marking her, claiming her, making sure there’s no doubt who she belongs to.

She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders, and fuck, that does something to me.

Her heels press into my back, her body arching, taking me deeper, rawer, wetter.

I pull back just enough to watch her, watch the way her lips part, the way her lashes flutter, the way her body reacts to every single thing I do.

I’ve never seen anything more fucking beautiful.

She feels it. I know she does. She knows this isn’t just sex. It’s a goddamn war, and I’m never letting her go.

I grip her chin, tilting her head so she has no choice but to meet my eyes.

“Who do you belong to,” I growl, voice rough.

“You,” she whispers, her breath shaky, her body trembling beneath me.

That’s it.

I flip her onto her stomach in one smooth motion, my hands rough, unrelenting, dragging her back against me. She gasps, her fingers fisting in the sheets.

I grab a fistful of her hair, tilting her head back just enough so my lips graze her ear.

“Mine,” I murmur.

She whimpers. That fucking sound.

I tighten my grip, guiding her, controlling her, my other hand sliding over the curve of her waist, gripping her hip.

She pushes back against me, needy, desperate, perfect.

“Mine,” I growl, slamming into her, my fingers bruising into her skin.

Her cry is wrecked, breathless, and when her whole body tightens, her back arching, I fucking lose it.

My release crashes through me hard, brutal, fucking annihilating, and I empty myself into her with a sharp groan, my body locking tight before shuddering apart.

For a long moment, I don’t move, my hands still gripping her hips, my chest heaving against her back.

Jesus Christ.

I ease her down, softer now, my lips brushing the back of her neck before I collapse beside her.

She curls against me instantly, her head resting on my chest, her fingers trailing over my skin. Her touch is soft, almost absentminded, and it hits me in a way I’m not prepared for.

I wrap an arm around her, holding her close, trying to imprint this moment in my mind.

Seconds later, hours later, fuck if I know, a knock at the door.

Too soon.

“Fuck off,” I snap, my voice rough with frustration.

Then there’s a pop.

I sit straight up, the sound cutting through the haze of satisfaction still lingering in my chest.

Gunfire.

My gut locks.

“Get dressed,” I say, already untangling from her and reaching for my jeans. Two emergencies in one day? Not a record, but far from normal.

Her movements are quick but shaky as she tugs her pants on, her fingers fumbling briefly with the buttons.

My feet hit the floor, my focus shifting to the door.

“Dax!” The voice is strained. Panicked.

Quince.

Another pop echoes, louder this time. Then a knock, hard and rapid.

“On the way,” I bark, yanking my shirt over my head.

She’s pulling her shirt on as I fling the door open.

Quince is there, wide-eyed and breathing hard, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Talk,” I order, grabbing my boots and slipping them on as fast as my hands will move.

Behind me, I feel Faith’s eyes on us, her presence pressing at the edges of my focus like a live wire.

“Pauly,” Quince starts, his voice trembling. “He went nuts. In the yard. Bit Felix and Mutt. Turned on Henderson.”

“Bit them?” I demand, narrowing my eyes. Pauly’s unstable, sure, but what the hell? “He was sick…”

“Didn’t just bite them, Dax,” Quince cuts me off, his voice sharper, his panic bleeding through. He glances at Faith and hesitates, then shifts uncomfortably before adding, “He gnawed Mutt’s throat, ripped out his guts, man. Like an animal. It was…”

I’m stunned for half a second, my mind spinning. That’s not sick. That’s something else.

“Give me your knife,” I snap, holding out my hand.

Quince doesn’t argue. He pulls the blade from his belt and slaps it into my palm.

I turn to Faith, holding the knife out to her. “You know how to work one of these?”

She nods, but her face is pale, her eyes wide and unblinking.

Another pop, closer this time, the sharp crack of gunfire splitting the air.

“Give me your pistol,” I say.

Quince hesitates for the briefest moment before handing it over. His hands are shaking now, but he slings his rifle back up, readying himself.

I grip the pistol, my mind spinning through the possibilities. Leave her? Take her? Another volley of gunfire echoes down the hall, and that option’s gone. Shit.

I grab her shoulder, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Wait here,” I say, my voice low and commanding. “Don’t open this door for anyone but me. If anyone comes in, stab them. I don’t give a shit if they’re in uniform or not.”

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing, but she nods. Her hand grips the knife, her knuckles white.

“Faith,” I add, softening my tone just slightly, “I mean it. Don’t hesitate. You stab them, you gut them, whatever it takes. Do you understand me?”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she nods again, more firmly this time.

I brush past Quince, stepping into the hallway. The air feels heavier now, thick with tension, every muscle in my body coiled as I prepare for what’s coming. Whatever’s out there, whatever the hell Pauly’s gotten into, it’s not getting anywhere near her.

The yard is a hellish blend of chaos and unsettling calm.

The silent breeze off the sea clashes with the grunts, snarls, and rapid bursts of gunfire echoing off the concrete walls.

It doesn’t make sense, none of it. My pulse pounds as I flip the safety off my pistol, moving low and fast through the shadows, trying to gauge what the fuck is happening.

Quince hangs back near the exit, his rifle slung low and his knuckles white around the grip. He’s frozen, no use to anyone. Typical .

A shot rings out. I jerk toward the sound in time to see Victor stagger back, blood blossoming from his shoulder. He barely flinches, his head snapping toward one of the few guards I trust, Wilkes, like the bullet was nothing more than a mosquito bite.

Wilkes fires again, and the shot slams into Victor’s chest, a direct hit, center mass. A kill shot.

Except Victor doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving, his gait jerky and unnatural, like something’s short-circuited in his brain.

“What the fuck did Doc give them this week?” I mutter under my breath. I’ve seen tweakers power through gunshots before, but this? A chest wound should drop anyone.

“Head shots!” I shout, my voice booming across the yard.

Wilkes hesitates, his expression tight with confusion, but he obeys. He takes aim, his hands steady, and fires.

Victor’s head jerks back, and he crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

No one moves through a head shot.

I step into the yard, my boots crunching over gravel and spilled food trays. The chaos sharpens as I take it in. Seven bodies lie scattered across the ground, most of them guards or inmates I know personally. Blood pools beneath them, dark and spreading.

All of them look chewed on. Torn apart.

Except Pauly. His head’s a mess, brains scattered across the concrete from a bullet that did what it needed to.

My jaw tightens. Whatever Doc pumped into them this time, it’s turned them into fucking animals.

I whistle, sharp and loud. Heads jerk toward me, and the gunfire slows as guards and inmates alike look my way.

“Talk to me!” I bark, scanning the yard.

“We got some fucking injured over here!” Wilkes shouts, his voice cracking as he gestures to a group huddled near the far wall.

“Get ‘em to Doc!” I yell back. My focus shifts to the struggling figures still flailing and grappling on the ground. The fight isn’t over yet.

“Enough!” I shout, the word cutting through the air like a whip.

Most of the chaos halts, but not all of it.

“Get him off me!” Clarkson screams, his voice high and panicked.

I pivot, sprinting toward the sound. Clarkson’s on his back, his face twisted in terror as Rog, an inmate I’ve shared meals with, snarls and snaps at him like a feral dog. Blood drips from Rog’s chin, his teeth red as he lunges for Clarkson’s throat.

My stomach twists, but I don’t hesitate. I grab Rog by the back of his shirt and yank him off, tossing him to the ground like dead weight.

He scrambles to his feet, but he doesn’t come at me like a man. He’s all wild eyes and jerky movements, his lips peeled back in a snarl that doesn’t belong on a human face. His bloodshot eyes lock on mine, and he lunges.

I don’t think. I fire.

The shot cracks through the yard, and Rog drops instantly, the hole between his eyes dark and final.

Clarkson rolls onto his side, clutching his neck. His breathing is ragged, panicked, but he’s alive.

“What the fuck was in the gruel tonight?” he wheezes, spitting blood onto the concrete. “That fucker bit me!”

My grip on the pistol tightens as I glance at Rog’s still body, the snarl frozen on his face.

“Get to Doc,” I say sharply, my voice low but firm. I can’t let this spiral in my head, not yet. “That’s where I’m headed next, soon as this yard is secure.”

Clarkson nods weakly and starts to crawl toward the exit.

I turn, scanning the yard one last time. The gunfire has stopped, but the damage is done. Bodies litter the ground, some still twitching, others already gone. Blood soaks the dirt and gravel, and the metallic tang of it hangs thick in the air.

My gaze lands on Quince, still frozen by the exit, his rifle loose in his hands.

“Quince!” I shout, snapping him out of whatever daze he’s in. “Get your shit together and sweep the yard. Make sure none of these assholes are getting back up.”

He jerks a nod, his face pale, and moves toward Wilkes.

I don’t stick around to watch.

Faith.

She’s the only thought in my head as I move toward the staff wing. My boots are heavy against the concrete, my heart pounding harder than it has any right to. She has a knife. A knife against these animals. What was I thinking.

She’ll be fine, I tell myself.

She better be fine.