Page 97 of Worshiping Faith

Enough space to coexist. Enough space to not hear each other breathe.

He steps into the hall, taking a slow, measured look into each room, like he’s checking to make sure we didn’t set him up in a broom closet while we sleep in king-sized beds.

They’re all the same. Exactly the same.

Satisfied, Irish?

“You’ll have walkies for your crew,” I add.

His hazel eyes flick back to me, unreadable.

We both know this truce is a fragile thing, but neither of us can afford to break it.

That’s how all my alliances start. Stranger fucking things have happened.

“You heading to the wardroom to count heads?” Irish asks.

I nod. One more fucking thing between me and Faith.

His eyes stay on me. Calculating. He draws in a slow breath, like he’s considering his next words real careful-like. “I’ll head back, see how many our girl stitched up. Meet you with numbers so we can figure out how much of this ship we need to open up for these assholes.”

Our girl.

The words clang like metal against bone.

“We’ll get to that intro after we lock this place down good and tight,” he adds, casual as can be.

Motherfucker is enjoying this.

I step closer, not enough to be a challenge, just enough to make damn sure he knows where I stand. “She’ll make that call.” My voice is steel, unyielding.

He knows exactly what I mean.

His grin is slow. “Of course she will.”

Irish. Fucking. Smiled at me.

I exhale through my nose, forcing my shoulders to stay loose. This is a game I can’t play yet. I need him right now, his numbers, his guns, his ability to keep his pack of wolves in check.

I turn, walking away, because there’s still Mason to wedge into this circle too. Tight fit, but goddamn it, to keep her safe?

Yeah.

I’ll make it work.

For now.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Faith

After IV fluids, antibiotics, and the very mildest sedative I could find, Jinx finally drifts back to sleep. His body still twitches from withdrawals, but with the steady drip of fluids, at least he won’t be waking up thirsty every hour. He needs rest, real rest, or none of this is going to matter.

I sigh and step back, rolling my shoulders. My hands ache from the work, from the pressure of keeping this whole damn crew stitched together. If I let myself think about it too long, I might just collapse.

I close the door behind me.

Wilkes is waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face set in a look I can’t quite read, but every part of my body registers the energy rolling off of him.

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