Page 67 of Worshiping Faith

And I step inside.

He doesn’t step back immediately.

He lingers, just inside the doorway, like he’s making sure I’m really here, really safe.

Then, his head tilts slightly, eyes sweeping over me, assessing in that way he always does, like he’s cataloging everything, tucking it away.

“I’m needed.” His voice is low, steady. Unshakable. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

A command.

He’s notasking meto wait.

He’s telling me.

And for some reason, it doesn’t grate on me like it should.

It does something else entirely. A slow heat uncoils deep in my stomach.

I swallow. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes flicker, darkening just a fraction. Then he smiles. Slow. Controlled. Like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.

And damn it all, I think I might like it.

Chapter Fifteen

Dax

“I want every fucking bit of supplies locked down and accounted for before a single person who isn’t us steps foot on this ship,” I say, my voice low but sharp.

Zachs, Trip, and Wilkes all get it.

This isn’t about being cautious. It’s about survival.

We need control. Over the weapons. The food. The space. Everything. If we bring forty-one hardened inmates and ex-guards onboard without a plan, we might as well be handing them a floating battlefield.

“Full sweep before Wilkes brings Faith onboard,” I finish.

Two birds, one stone. She stays safe. We get a head start on securing our new home.

Wilkes nods, already peeling off toward the dock to keep her exactly where I need her for now.

This beast is four decks high, big enough to hold everyone without cramming us in like rats but still manageable with a small crew.

We take the lower deck first.

This is where they’d store extra munitions, weapons, and supplies. If we don’t lock this down, we’re dead before we even leave port.

Trip moves through the tight corridors like a ghost, clearing rooms before I even get to them.

We find the armory fast, reinforced steel door, locked.

I nod at him. “Pop it open.”

Trip yanks a breaching tool from his pack, works fast. Metal groans as he pries it loose. The second the door swings open,my stomach knots. Rifles, sidearms, crates of ammo stacked like fucking Christmas gifts.

Trip lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

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