Page 3 of Faith Among Monsters

Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the air behind him.

“Dax!” A second man saunters to the edge of the dock, this one in jeans and a T-shirt too, tattoos sprawling haphazardly across his forearms and creeping up his neck. His presence is different, louder, rougher. There’s a sharper edge to the way he moves, like he thrives on chaos. “Need a hand?”

His gaze sweeps over me, lingering far too long. “What the hell did you order, and where’s mine?”

Unease prickles up my spine, but Dax doesn’t look back. His expression shifts instantly, his sharp, assessing stare turning cold as a blade.

“Mind your manners, Grip, or I’ll mind them for you,” Dax says, his tone as low and sharp as a growl.

The sudden edge in his voice sends a shiver racing across my skin, and I inhale sharply. Grip takes a step back, raising his hands in mock surrender with a crooked grin, but there’s a flicker of respect, or maybe fear, in his eyes.

This is no maintenance man.

The realization settles heavy in my stomach. Dax Stryker isn’t here to greet me. He’s an inmate.

I thought I understood what kind of place this was. What kind of people I’d be dealing with. But the sharp look in Dax Stryker’s eyes tells me I’ve got it all wrong.

Chapter Two

Dax

As I head back for the last crate, I tell myself the woman’s still standing on the dock because she’s got the good sense to get back on the ferry.

But then I catch the defiant set of her lips. Those full, sexy lips pressed together like she’s daring the whole damn island to take a shot at her.

My gaze snags on her bags, still sitting at her feet. Fucking Grip dumped them there and left her to fend for herself. Asshole.

She’s watching me now, her blazing sapphire eyes locked on mine like she’s sizing me up. The sun glints off her light brown hair, pulling out strands of gold that don’t belong in a place like this.

“Mr. Stryker,” she says, her voice calm, smooth, like a promise I haven’t heard in far too long.

I stop a few steps away and tip my head toward the ferry. “You need help getting those back on the boat?”

She blinks, slow, like she’s about two seconds away from losing her shit.

“Grip says you can escort me to the warden,” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut.

I rub my hand over my mouth, half to keep from laughing at her nerve and half to grind down the frustration building in my chest. She needs to leave. Now. I’m not the only one here who’s going to notice the way her suit hugs her curves. And I sure as hell won’t be the only one thinking about what’s under it.

Why the hell would anyone send a woman tothisplace? Tous?

Because they don’t care. That’s why. They don’t give a shit what happens to her. They sent her here to stir the pot, knowing damn well she wouldn’t last a week. Maybe not even a day.

She shifts her weight, and her scent, something clean and soft, catches on the salty breeze. I grind my teeth harder.

“Will you help with my bags?” she asks, her voice a little tighter now. She gestures at the two smaller bags by her feet. “I can carry these.”

I step closer, her words barely registering because the truth hits me like a punch to the gut.

Theywanther to get hurt.

They want her here, on this island, where she’s nothing but a walking target. So that when something happens to her, and it will, it looks exactly how they want it to. A sweet little doctor sent to save the big bad monsters, raped and killed for her trouble.

They’re setting her up to fail. To die.

Shit.

I grab her bags, slinging the heavier one over my shoulder without a word.

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