Page 98 of Worshiping Faith

It’s pissed.

It’s coiled.

And I don’t have the patience to unpack it.

“You gonna tell me about that room?” I nod toward the open door across from us. “Or that man with Dax? Do you know who he is? Is he moving in there?”

Wilkes doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze flicks to the door. Then back to me. His jaw clenches just enough to tell me I’m about to get only what he’s willing to share.

I scrub a hand down my face, irritation mixing with exhaustion. “Fine. Since you’re clearly in a mood, let me go ahead and get ahead of this. I only touched Jinx to get the linein. Not that it should matter, because if the man needs care, he’s getting it from me.”

I take a step toward him. His brows lift just slightly, as if I’m amusing him, but that unreadable tension never leaves his face.

“I get that you all have this crazy testosterone-possessive shit going on, but if I’m going to be the only doctor here, I have to touch men.”

Wilkes’ brow ticks up.

Then, before I can say another word, his hand comes up. Two fingers press against my lips, cutting me off mid-rant.

My breath stutters.

“Not here,” he murmurs. His voice is like gravel, low, firm. “We’ll cover you. Me and you.” His gaze pins me in place, dark and sharp. “And what you will and won’t do at the appropriate time, in the appropriate place.”

His meaning is clear. Not in the hallway. Not like Dax and Zachs.

I hate that my pulse kicks up.

I hate the way my body responds to him when I’m this exhausted, this irritated, this done.

I swallow, shifting my focus, needing a new target before I do something reckless. “Who was that man?”

“Irish.” One word, but the way he says it makes my stomach knot.

Irish. The name fits.

“Him and his six thugs will be staying in the next hall. They’re part of us now.” The words are clipped, like they taste bitter coming out of his mouth.

The exhaustion drains from my body in a sharp rush. “Part of us?”

Wilkes holds my stare.

The words sit between us.

Dax made this call, which means that’s final. But Wilkes? He hates it.

I gesture toward the open room. “So who’s that for?”

“Mason.” The name lands heavy.

The weight in Wilkes’ voice makes me pause. “And Mason is...?”

His jaw tightens. “A good man.”

But it doesn’t sound like praise.

He shifts his stance, running a hand over his mouth, exhaling hard through his nose like he’s forcing himself to say the next part. “One of the few old-time guards who couldn’t be bought by the brass.”

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