Page 5 of Faith Among Monsters

“You’ll need to leave them here,” the guard at the main gate says, his tone clipped and dismissive as he gestures to my bags.

“All of them?” I ask, though it comes out sounding more like a frustrated objection than an actual question.

The guard doesn’t answer, his harsh, cynical gaze sliding over me like I’m just another nuisance he has to deal with.

At my side, Dax shifts, his shoulders tight as he sets my bags down on the cracked asphalt. “Give me your purse,” he says, his voice low.

I turn to him, startled. There’s something in his eyes, though, something steady, almost grounding. It’s the same look he gave me at the docks, the same unspoken warning in the way he stood between me and Grip.

Somewhere deep down, I know I should be afraid of him. But right now, with the guard’s eyes still on me like he’s waiting for me to screw up, Dax feels more like an ally than he has any right to be.

Without a word, I hand Dax my purse.

He unzips it without hesitation, dumping the contents onto the rickety metal table in front of us. My cheeks flush with anger, and when his rough, calloused hands start rummaging through my things, the flush turns into full-blown heat.

He unzips the inner pockets, tugging out everything: lipstick, breath mints, a travel-size packet of tissues, a box of painkillers, a single, crumpled sock I’d forgotten about, and, God help me, birth control pills.

I stare straight ahead, my jaw tightening as the guard lets out a low chuckle. I meet his gaze, and the cruelty in his eyes is enough to send a cold shiver racing down my spine. He’s enjoying this.

Dax’s hands pause for half a second, his body going still when he pulls out the pills. His jaw ticks once before he shoves everything back into the bag. If he’s embarrassed for me, he doesn’t show it.

He thrusts my purse back into my hands, his voice even. “Do I need to go through them all?”

The guard’s grin spreads slow and wide, like a wolf baring its teeth. “Yeah. Can’t be too careful.” He steps closer, the smell of cigarettes and stale coffee rolling off him like a fog. “I’ll frisk her.”

Dax stiffens beside me. The air between us changes, sharp and heavy, like the quiet just before a storm. “Why don’t I?” Dax says, his voice deceptively calm. “You can thoroughly search her bags instead.”

The guard shakes his head, clearly enjoying the way I tense at his suggestion. “Dump them out,” he says, his attention never leaving me.

I step back, my hand tightening around the strap of my purse. My eyes flick down to his uniform, searching for a name.O’Connor.He’ll go in my report. Every single thing about this will go in my report.

Dax drops to a crouch, already unpacking the first bag with methodical efficiency. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel the fury radiating off him in waves. His shoulders are tight, his jaw locked, and his hands work faster than they should, the tension in him coiled tight as barbed wire.

O’Connor steps closer. He unbuttons my coat with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing my collarbone. I flinch at theunwanted contact, jerking my gaze away from him. When I do, I accidentally lock eyes with Dax.

The storm I’d sensed brewing in him is written across his face now. His jaw is so tight I wouldn’t be surprised if he cracked a tooth.

O’Connor’s hands slip beneath my coat, rough fingers pressing along my ribs. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I force myself to stay still, my breath coming faster despite my best efforts.

His hands slide lower, moving down my waist and toward my hips. His touch lingers too long, and when he dips lower, brushing against my thighs, the air freezes in my lungs.

The scent of him, coffee, sweat, cigarettes, turns my stomach.

I flick my gaze to Dax again, desperate for something to focus on. His hands have stopped moving. He’s crouched over my bag, his head down, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders or the way his fists clench, knuckles white.

O’Connor doesn’t notice. He doesn’t even care. His hands glide higher, grazing my inner thigh, and I jerk back a step, my breath hitching.

“That’s enough,” Dax says, his voice low and deadly.

O’Connor glances over, arching a brow. “Relax, Stryker. Just doing my job.”

“No.” Dax rises slowly, his full height towering over the other man. His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but no less dangerous. “You’re pushing your luck.”

The two men lock eyes, and I can feel the tension in the air, sharp as broken glass. Dax doesn’t move, but there’s something about the way he stands, his fists loose at his sides, his shoulders squared, that makes O’Connor hesitate.

“Whatever,” O’Connor mutters, stepping back like it was his idea. “She’s clear.”

Dax doesn’t respond. He just keeps his gaze locked on O’Connor, his jaw tight, until O’Connor finally turns away.

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