Page 5 of Worshiping Faith

She’s walking around thinking I was just a guard. She can’t make a call on any of us with missing information.

Do I dare?

She’s with Dax. She knew what he was, what he did. She saw him as a man, not a con.

Maybe she’d see me too.

“I know who the cons are, too,” I say, watching her reaction. Testing the water.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“Just pull the files,” she mutters, flicking through another drawer.

Still pissed. Okay.

“My file’s with theirs.”

That stops her cold.

The silence stretches between us.

She’s not even breathing.

“Your file is with the inmates?” she finally says.

Her voice is steady, but I hear it, the tiny hitch before she speaks.

She sweeps her eyes over me, slow and sharp, looking for proof. A tattoo, a scar, something that says I’m not fucking with her.

Like she can see the difference between a guard and a con just by looking hard enough.

Adorable.

The woman came here as an advocate for us. To make sure we weren’t being abused.

To her, we’re men.

To me? Some of us are. Some of us aren’t.

“Yeah, well. The filing system here sucks,” I say.

She sets her paper down, along with the single file she’d pulled. Then she steps closer.

Okay. She didn’t run.

But my file? Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem.

“I think I might have a whole drawer of shit on me,” I admit, smirking. “I can help you carry it, or just give you the lowdown and save us both a backache.”

Her lips press together, her gaze locked on mine.

“You were an inmate?” she asks. But this time, she’s watching my eyes. Looking for lies. Looking for something.

“Here?”

That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Here. Where they kept the worst of the worst.

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