Page 21 of Worshiping Faith

“Zachs,” I say.

Crack.

He slams the guard’s face into the wall beside me.

The wet crunch of bone shatters the air, followed by a spray of hot blood, flecking across the concrete, across my sleeve.

The guard gurgles, hands scrabbling at Zachs’ wrist, but Zachs is already moving again.

Crack.

The second hit rattles the entire goddamn wall. A sickening thud.

Something gives, cartilage or bone, maybe both, and a surge of bile claws up my throat.

But worse is the look in Zachs’ eyes. The pure, feral delight.

“Zachs!” My voice wavers, but I hold firm.

He doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he does, but he’s not done yet.

“Enough. Please, Zachs.” I force my voice softer, controlled. “He was just apologizing.”

Slowly, too slowly, Zachs turns to me. His gaze sweeps over me, sharp and assessing. Searching. He’s checking for injuries. Dax does that, too.

But not like this.

“That so?” Zachs mutters. And just like that, he lets the guard drop.

The man crumples to the ground, coughing blood, a tooth rattling loose onto the floor.

“I don’t hear a fucking apology,” Zachs says.

Nothing.

The guard is too busy trying to suck in a breath past his shattered nose.

Zachs waits, just a second. Then he blinks, slow, almost exasperated, like this is an inconvenience, like he’s dealing with a toddler who won’t eat his vegetables.

A tight, closed-mouth smile jerks across his face. Then he kicks the guard in the ribs. Hard. “It better sound sincere.”

The impact echoes, and this time, I can’t help it. I flinch.

Movement at the chow hall doorway pulls my attention.

There’s a crowd now. Some laughing. Some watching. Others looking at me, like I’m the problem.

I force my breath steady and slide my knife back into its sheath.

“Sorry,” the guard finally gasps, his voice shaky, wet with blood.

Zachs grabs him by the collar, yanks him upright so fast the man nearly passes out.

“That sound sincere to you, Doc?” His voice is light, almost conversational.

But his eyes? They’re still gone. Snapped. Not all the way back yet.

I force myself to hold his gaze. Keep him here. Keep him with me. “Accepted,” I say, carefully. “Honest mistake.”

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