Page 2 of Faith Among Monsters

My gaze lingers too long, caught on the ripple of his muscles under that damn T-shirt. On the way he stands, as if the world itself should make room for him.

He glances up from the clipboard the ferryman hands him, his sharp gaze cutting through the humid air straight to me.

Double shit.

The air feels heavier, the sun pressing harder against my back. His eyes linger a moment too long before his mouth twitches, barely a flicker, but it sends heat rushing to my cheeks. I look away.

Professional. Neutral. I repeat it to myself like a mantra.

But it’s impossible to ignore the sinking realization that this isn’t Warden Sinclair.

This man is something else entirely.

The captain strides past me without a word, brushing so close I nearly stumble. To him, I’m no more than another crate to unload.

The other man steps closer, and my throat dries.

He moves with a quiet confidence that makes it hard to look away. His arms are inked from wrist to bicep, a sleeve of black tattoos that seem to ripple with every shift of his muscles.

Maintenance, maybe?

But there’s no badge clipped to his shirt, no utility belt, no gun strapped to his hip.

They sent a maintenance man to greet me. An insult. Bastards.

I clench my jaw, steadying the flicker of indignation rising in my chest. Dare I give them the reaction they want?

Not a chance. Keeping my expression neutral, I lean down to grab my bag.

“Warden Sinclair is expecting me,” I say, my tone clipped. “If you can have the rest of my bags brought up with the supplies, please.”

The man’s gaze slides over me, slow and deliberate, and it feels like a touch. Rough. Like I’ve been pinned under calloused hands and manhandled.

“Miss…” His deep voice scrapes across my nerves as he glances down at the clipboard in his hands like I’m no different than the crates of canned food or dried beans stacked nearby.

“Doctor,” I snap, harsher than I intend. “Doctor Faith Wilson.”

His mouth quirks into a slow, devastating smile, and for a second, I forget the heat clinging to my skin. That smile shouldn’t belong to a man who fixes pipes or sweeps floors. It’s a weapon, sensual and disarming all at once.

“Faith,” he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. “Excuse me?”

“Get back on the ferry,” he says, the command sharp enough to make me take a half step back.

“The warden is expecting me,” I manage, squaring my shoulders.

He doesn’t budge. “The ferry.” His gaze flicks past me, toward the gangway, and one dark brow arches as if daring me to argue.

I dig my heels in. “I’ll speak with the warden myself.”

His jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath that perfect stubble. “This is no place for a woman,” he says, each word laced with irritation. “If you’re dead set on carrying out this ‘evaluation,’ send a man.”

What year is this?

“Who are you?” I demand, my pulse ticking faster, the heat of frustration rising in my chest.

“Dax Stryker,” he says simply, his name a challenge more than an introduction.

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