Page 35 of Worshiping Faith

He’s back to being Zachs. Mostly. A little wound too tight. A little too careful.

He returns a moment later with a blanket and a thin pillow.

Jinx snatches them through the bars, mutters a quick thanks, then backs away again like Zachs might change his mind and finish what he started.

There’s so much to say, but not here. Not with Jinx watching. Not for this.

Zachs still looks like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s walking on eggshells. I hate that. Uneasy doesn’t fit him. Zachs is who he is, and I chose him anyway. He needs to get that fast. I need all of them to stay sharp, because whatever’s happening on this island, whatever they aren’t telling me yet, we’re not done fighting.

I step closer, brushing my fingers over his arm, soft, steady. “Can I still keep you?” I ask.

His smirk comes back so fast it makes my chest ache. “Do I need to wash up first?”

“Yes.” I nod. “And a tramp stamp will do if you don’t want a forehead brand.”

“Damn, Doc.” His voice lowers, something warm slipping into his tone. He leans in, breath ghosting my ear. “I’m gonna need some time off to properly knock the muck off your boots.”

Before I can fire back, voices echo from the hallway.

Zachs straightens, all humor gone. “What is it about kissing you that brings the chaos?”

“You like chaos,” I say.

His dimple flashes, but there’s something softer in his eyes now. “Maybe I like kissing you more.”

Before I can respond, Dax and Wilkes stride in, Quince between them, all of them laughing.

The door clangs shut behind them.

Wilkes stops laughing first. Then he grabs Quince and twists his arm behind his back.

Something pops. Quince screams. “What the fuck?!”

Wilkes doesn’t respond. He just cuffs one wrist, then the other, locking them behind Quince’s back.

Dax turns to me and Zachs. “Get her dinner and tuck her in.” His voice is casual, but firm. “We’ve got this.”

I don’t argue. I know exactly what Dax is capable of. And he knows I know.

This isn’t about permission for me. This is permission for Zachs.

And Zachs knows it too.

Neither of us speak on the walk back to our wing.

Our.

That word echoes in my mind, heavy, settling in a way I didn’t expect.

Ours.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged. A slow, humming tension winding tighter with every step.

When we step inside, Zachs is the one to break it. “You hungry?”

“No.” My voice is softer than I mean it to be. “Let’s clean up.”

There’s no point in playing coy. Not here. Not now. Not when life and death hangs so close.

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