Page 42 of Faith Among Monsters

“That’s not…” I start, but then he cuts me off with something even more ridiculous.

“Hell, I might’ve been bitten. You wanna practice your methods on me first?”

The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re absurd, but because my response comes too fast, too sharp.

“I belong to Dax.” I’m not expecting to say it. Not like that. Not so instinctively.

Zachs doesn’t miss a beat. His laughter doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, warm and unhurried, like this is the funniest damn thing he’s heard all week.

“Relax, Doc. It’s tense enough through the next door without you making it worse.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him. Trying to get him. But I can’t. His easygoing demeanor isn’t something I’m used to. It feels off in a place like this, like a mask that fits a little too well. A little too smooth.

Not unlike those charming psychopaths, the Ted Bundys of the world, grinning at you right before they strike.

A chill runs down my spine.

“Don’t overthink it,” Zachs says, voice pulling me from the thought. His grin stays, flashing quick and sharp. Then he stopsat a barred door, keys jingling as he unlocks it. The sound is sharp in the oppressive quiet.

The solitary wing is colder than the halls leading to it. The air smells faintly of sweat, something metallic, and the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead makes it feel more sterile, less human.

“It’s best if you linger by me,” Zachs says, his tone light, like we’re walking into a casual meeting instead of a room full of killers.

The second we step inside, the conversations die.

Every pair of eyes in the room turns to us, expressions shifting between suspicion, curiosity, and exhaustion. The air thickens, weighted by unspoken tension.

The men, both inmates and guards, look like they’ve been through hell. Their clothes are stained, ripped, and smeared with grime, and their faces tell the same story. A few have dark stains on their shirts that I don’t want to examine too closely. None of them are gnawing on the walls, or each other, but some look like they might be tempted if the opportunity arose.

I scan the room, taking in the dynamics. There’s a clear divide. The guards have staked out their own corner, lounging on overturned crates and a couple of chairs dragged from who-knows-where. The inmates occupy the cells, though none of the doors are closed. It gives the illusion that the guards are in control, but the truth is obvious. The inmates outnumber them two to one.

Of course, the guards have the guns. That should level the odds.

The thought sits heavy in my chest. I don’t have a gun anymore. The weight of it is gone from my hands, and all I have left is my knife tucked into my waistband.

I recognize a few faces.

Grip leans against the wall of a cell, arms crossed, a smirk plastered on his face. He catches my eye and gives me a mock salute, but I don’t react.

Most of the men are talking in low voices or sitting in tense silence, their postures stiff and wary. But one man sits apart from the rest, occupying a cell toward the front.

Trip.

I know it’s him without needing confirmation.

He’s older, maybe in his fifties or sixties, though prison ages everyone differently. Some faster than others. His build is solid, his frame broad and unyielding, like he was carved out of stone. His tattoos are faded and blurred with age, but they still mark him as someone you don’t screw with. His hair is silver, cropped short, and his cool blue eyes lock on me the second I step into the room.

Unlike the others, who size me up with varying degrees of curiosity, Trip’s gaze is calculating, assessing. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. The silence around him feels deliberate, like it’s not just the room that gives him space, but everyone in it.

I force myself to hold his gaze for a second longer than is comfortable before looking away.

“Don’t stare,” Zachs murmurs, leaning close enough for his breath to brush my ear. “Trip might bite you just for shits and giggles. He’s due to get out soon, and I guarantee he’s looking for an excuse to stick around.” The humor in his tone doesn’t quite mask the edge of warning beneath it.

I flick my gaze back to Trip for a brief moment, careful not to linger. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something faintly amused in the quirk of his brow, like he overheard Zachs and didn’t entirely disagree.

“Are all the inmates here this… welcoming?” I whisper.

Zachs’ grin widens. “Only the ones you haven’t pissed off yet.”

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