Chapter 24
ARMEN
She asks the first question without looking at me.
That’s how I know this won’t go the way it’s supposed to. She hasn’t slumped. She hasn’t leaned forward either. Balanced. Alert. Watching.
“You said I’d be moved,” she says. “You didn’t say when.”
I don’t answer immediately. That’s deliberate. Questions are a kind of reach. Most Runts reach too fast, too often. They flood us Rotters with noise to fill the space and soothe their nerves. But Vi lets the quiet sit. Lets it stretch. She isn’t trying to fill it. She’s using it.
That’s already a problem.
“Things will happen when necessary,” I say.
She nods once, like she expected that non-answer. Like she’s filing it away instead of bristling at it. “And what determines necessity?” she asks.
I step closer before I respond. Not abruptly. Not enough to startle her. Just enough that the space between us tightens. She has to tilt her head slightly to keep eye contact now. Her breathing changes — not faster, not slower. Deeper.
She doesn’t lean back. She doesn’t lean away.
Most people do one or the other when you crowd their space. Even the defiant ones. They give ground, even if it’s only a fraction of an inch. She doesn’t.
Fuck me.
What can I say? I love a ballsy chick. The guys tell me it will someday be my undoing.
Over my dead body.
“Behavior determines necessity,” I say. “Utility. Risk.”
She smiles faintly at that. “Which am I? Useful or risky?”
Unsure whether her questions are sincere or if she’s fucking with me, I halt a foot in front of her.
Close enough that I can see the faint sheen of sweat at her temple.
Close enough that I can hear the subtle hitch in her breath she doesn’t quite manage to suppress.
Her body knows I’m here even if her expression refuses to acknowledge it.
“You’re asking questions,” I say. “That answer your own.”
She lifts her chin another fraction. “So I should stop asking them.”
“No,” I say. “Ask better ones.”
Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t look away. “Fine,” she says. “How many women don’t leave?”
There it is. Not a plea. Not a bargain. A data point. I straighten slightly, just enough to reset the angle between us. Not retreating. Reframing.
“People don’t leave in the way they imagine they will,” I say.
She absorbs that without visible reaction. No flinch. No sharp inhale. Just a subtle tightening around her eyes, like she’s focusing harder.
“And the ones who do?” she asks.
I don’t answer. I watch her process the silence instead.
She shifts her weight carefully, mindful of her knee, then looks up at me again. Still not begging. Still not posturing.
“You talk about Hunts like they’re stories,” she says. “Not warnings.”
“They are stories,” I reply. “Warnings are for people who think they have a choice.”
“And I don’t.”
“That depends,” I say, “on what you think choice looks like.”
Her gaze sharpens. “That’s evasive.”
“Yes,” I agree.
She exhales through her nose, slow and controlled. I notice then how she manages herself physically — how she doesn’t fidget, doesn’t waste movement. Even bound, she occupies her body efficiently. Like she expects to need the energy later.
I shouldn’t be tracking that. But I am.
“You said I wasn’t being punished,” she says. “You said I was being placed.”
“Yes.”
“So place me,” she says. “Tell me what that means.”
I close the distance before I can stop myself. Too close this time. Not touching, not yet, but near enough that her knees are almost between my boots. Near enough that I can feel the heat coming off her skin, the tension held tight in her shoulders.
Her breath deepens again. She still doesn’t retreat.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m not negotiating.”
I crowd her space deliberately now, angling my body so the corridor behind me is no longer visible from where she sits. Not blocking her escape, she doesn’t have one, but narrowing her world to this moment, this distance.
To me.
Her pupils flare. She swallows once. Still, she doesn’t lean back. “What happens to Runts,” she says carefully, “after you’re done sorting them?”
The question lands heavier than the others. “They’re assigned,” I say. “They’re used.”
“For what?” she presses.
“For what they’re suited for.”
She watches my face closely now, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes and back again, like she’s searching for something I’m not giving her.
“And if they’re not suited for anything?” she asks.
I hold her gaze. “Everyone is suited for something.”
“That sounds like justification.”
I feel my irritation spark before I can stop it. I’m not used to so many questions. To being challenged. “It sounds like reality,” I correct.
She shifts again, not away, not forward, just enough that her knee brushes my leg. Accidental. Or not.
My body reacts before my mind does. A sharp awareness. Heat. A tightening low in my gut that has nothing to do with anger. I step back immediately. Too fast.
Her eyes flick down, then back up. She noticed.
I steady myself, reassert distance, reassert control, but stare at her for a beat too long. Something shifts in my chest, not desire, not exactly. Threat. The kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s almost too late.
“You should be careful,” I say. “You’re testing limits you don’t understand.”
She lifts her chin. “I understand more than you think,” she says. “You’re not cruel because you enjoy it. You’re cruel because it keeps things running.”
That shouldn’t bother me but it does. I lean in without meaning to. Not aggressively. Not consciously. Just enough that her face fills my vision, her mouth inches from mine, her breath warm against my skin.
She doesn’t pull away. Her breath stutters this time, just once.
I register it instantly. I straighten and step back, forcing distance like it’s a physical correction. The space snaps back into place between us.
“That’s enough,” I say.
She watches me, eyes bright now, pulse visible at her throat. “Is it?”
Now she really is being a pain in the ass.
I don’t answer, because she doesn’t deserve an answer. She’s trying to get under my skin and she sees that she’s succeeded.
Damn her.
I turn and walk away instead, hands clenched, furious with myself for letting it go that far. Behind me, I can feel her watching. Not hopeful. But not afraid. Learning.
And that, more than anything she’s asked so far, tells me this could get worse before it gets better.