Page 49 of Faith Among Monsters

He’s playing along. It’s a way to get me out of this. A move. A tactic.

“I’ve got her for the night,” Sinclair says, chuckling, pleased with himself. “You’re two rounds behind on who’s next. Haven’t won yet. You want to roll your bets over before you get back to solitary?”

Zachs rolls his eyes, as if this is all just an inconvenience to him. Like he’s mildly annoyed at missing out. “That weak-ass Hogan still walking?”

Sinclair nods, steering me past him.

I force myself to move, but it takes everything not to turn and spit in Zachs’ grinning face.

His eyes flick to mine, still bright, still too damn friendly. But now I see what’s behind them. Nothing. They are cold. Empty.

Like this is all just a game to him.

I’m on my own.

After I put down Sinclair, Zachs will be next.

Chapter Seventeen

Faith

I follow Sinclair through the halls, forcing myself to memorize every turn. Right, then two lefts.

The layout isn’t like the rest of the prison. It’s cleaner, quieter. A different world from the filth and blood outside. The walls here aren’t lined with peeling paint or rusted bars. Instead, the floors are polished, the lighting softer, like I’ve stepped into an upscale office building instead of the last place I want to be.

I try to guess the time. It has to be near morning. Would the light make it easier for Dax and the others to fight the zombies? Or would it just make them easier to see?

Sinclair stops at a door and pushes it open, shoving me inside.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe something cold and utilitarian, like the rest of the prison. Something stark and emotionless. But this?

This is luxury.

The furniture is dark leather, deep wood, expensive. A full bar lines the wall, bottles of whiskey and rum gleaming under soft lighting. There’s a plush rug underfoot, thick enough that it muffles sound, a large bed against the far wall that looks like it belongs in a penthouse, not a prison.

It’s too refined for such a hard man.

It makes my skin crawl.

Sinclair leaves the door open behind him, like he doesn’t care who walks by. Like he wouldn’t mind the audience.

His eyes sweep over me, reminding me what I already know. I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my bra.

“This is why you came here, isn’t it?” he muses, toying with me. “You spread your legs for Dax the first chance you got.”

I bristle but keep my face composed.

He’s looking for a reaction. I won’t give him one.

His smirk deepens when I don’t respond. “Do you prefer to be treated like an animal? Is that why you work with the inmates? You like it rough?”

I force myself to breathe. To take him in like I’m considering his words when I’m really cataloging his weapons. Holster at his hip, not buckled in. Knife secured only with a snap.

I let my eyes drag over him slowly. Lecherously. I meet his gaze and let my lips part, just enough to be suggestive.

“Let me treat you like you deserve,” I murmur. I step forward.

His reaction is measured, controlled. He’s not stupid. He’s not the kind of man who makes mistakes.

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