Page 11 of Worshiping Faith

What was Daxthinking?

What amIthinking?

Zachs saunters over to the desk and sets the tray down like he’s done this a thousand times. Easy. Casual. His lopsided grin is still in place, that stupid, lethal dimple cutting into his cheek. His green eyes sparkle with mischief, too bright for someone so cold-blooded.

“I…” he starts, then shrugs like whatever he was about to say doesn’t matter. Instead, he pulls a small plastic-wrapped brownie off the tray and tosses it toward me. “Got you an extra dessert ration. Nothing is too much for our woman.”

Our.

The word that had once pissed me off feels like it belongs to another life.

Because Zachs isn’t assuming. He’s not suggesting it’s a given.

I study him, waiting for the smirk, the taunt, something to tell me he’s just messing with me.

Instead, he busies himself tearing open a sugar packet, dumping it into what I assume is coffee. His movements are too precise. Like he’s giving his hands something to do.

“It’s a lot,” he says suddenly. His voice is quieter, but not soft. “I know. I’m a lot. It’s my temper. Short fuse.”

I don’t know how to respond.

This, talking, is what I do. I talk to men like him. I understand them. I care about them.

But Zachs?

He’s them, times a hundred.

The words slip out before I can think better of them. “Who did this to you?” This? Hurt you? Broke you? Made you a monster?

I snap my mouth shut, pulse kicking in my throat.

Zachs flicks his gaze up, and something in his expression shutters fast. “Oh, doll, let’s not do that,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

It hurts more than I expect. Not because he won’t answer. Because he’s so used to not answering.

Parents, probably. Someone he trusted when he was still just a little boy.

He wears his charm and indifference like armor, but this, his file, his record, his entire life, is the truth beneath it.

“What do you want me to know about you?” I ask, shifting tactics. “Assume we’re on a date. Impress me.”

What the hell is wrong with me?

Zachs’ grin returns, but it’s different now. Lighter, realer.

It strikes me suddenly that he’s handsome.

Not in the sharp, commanding way Dax is. Not in the quiet, brooding way Trip is.

But in a dangerous, boyish, could-make-you-forget-who-he-is kind of way.

I’m clearly as bent as he is.

“Are we dating?” he asks, rubbing his hands together like he’s preparing for a game. He leans in slightly. Close enough that I catch his scent, spiced cologne, something warm and unexpected.

My stomach flips.

He smells… nice.

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