Page 6 of Faith Among Monsters

I tug my coat closed, my cheeks burning as I take a shaky breath.

“Let’s go,” Dax says, his voice clipped as he picks up the last of my bags. He doesn’t look at me, but I catch the tension still etched into his features.

I fall into step behind him, my heart pounding harder than it should.

The gates clang shut behind us, locking me into a world that feels far too open and far too confined all at once.

Inside the compound, the outer yard stretches out in uneven patches of cracked asphalt and trampled dirt. Inmates move in clusters, some working to unload crates of supplies, others sitting idle in the shade of the buildings. A few toss a basketball toward a rusted hoop with more missing pieces than intact ones.

The air is thick with salt and sweat, and every pair of eyes turns toward me as we walk past.

The first group we pass is standing near a set of barrels, their conversation dropping to a murmur as I approach. One man leans against the barrel, tattoos disappearing under his shirt sleeves, his grin sharp and predatory as he looks me up and down.

Dax doesn’t stop, doesn’t say a word, but his stride slows just enough for the man to notice. That small movement alone is enough to erase the grin from his face.

The man straightens, nudging the guy next to him. They both turn their attention elsewhere.

My stomach tightens as I realize how quiet the yard is getting. Conversations drift off wherever we go, replaced by watchful, sidelong glances.

Ahead, a group of guards leans against the wall of a low building, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They don’t looklike they’re paying much attention, but one of them, his uniform wrinkled, his belt unbuckled, tips his chin at Dax in greeting.

“Busy day, Stryker?” he asks, the words casual but edged with something sharper.

Dax doesn’t bother answering, and the guard smirks before turning his gaze to me. His eyes linger, dropping from my face to my legs, and I fight the urge to button my coat all the way up.

“She’s not your type, Henderson,” Dax says, his tone flat.

Henderson flinches at the use of his name, his smirk faltering.

The farther we walk, the harder it is to shake the feeling of being surrounded. Inmates lean against railings, stare from open windows, and stand half-hidden in the shadows of the buildings. Their attention isn’t loud, no catcalls, no whistles. Just the weight of too many eyes, the kind of watching that presses against your skin and makes your pulse pick up.

I force myself to keep my head high, even when my legs feel unsteady.

“You shouldn’t stare back,” Dax says under his breath, his voice quiet enough that only I can hear.

I bristle but don’t reply, my gaze darting to the set of steps ahead that lead into a larger building.

When we reach the entrance, an argument breaks out behind us. Two inmates square off near the edge of the yard, shoving each other, their voices rising.

Dax stops, turning just enough to glance back. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t take a step closer. He justlooks.

Whatever the fight is about, it fizzles in seconds. One of the men raises his hands, muttering something I can’t hear, and walks off. The other turns his back on us, spitting curses under his breath.

Dax keeps moving.

By the time we reach the administrative building, the tension hasn’t left my chest. If anything, it has only gotten worse.

The guards at the door nod at Dax and step aside, their movements sharp and efficient.

As we pass, one of them mutters under his breath, loud enough for us both to hear. “That’s a sweet piece.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, but I keep walking, refusing to let the words stick.

Inside, the air shifts. The salty breeze is gone, replaced by something heavier, dust and stale smoke. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker faintly, casting a cold glow over the narrow hallway.

The halls are mostly empty. The faint hum of machinery echoes in the distance, but the only people we pass are a few guards and a single inmate. He’s older, frail-looking, and hunched over as he sweeps the floor. The broom handle is worn smooth, like it’s been gripped for decades.

Dax brushes his hand against my arm, catching my attention. The touch is brief, but it pulls my focus sharply to him. His voice is low when he speaks, but the warning in it is clear. “Don’t challenge him.”

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