Chapter 27
VI
Armen breaks the moment without saying anything.
His hand comes to the back of my chair, fingers curling around the metal frame. He doesn’t jerk it or spin it. He turns it slowly, deliberately, changing the angle just enough that the center of the corridor is no longer directly in front of me.
“Sit still,” he says.
“I am sitting still,” I reply.
“Then don’t help.”
The chair stops. The scrape of metal against concrete echoes louder than it should. My new line of sight is worse, not safer, just narrower. I can still see movement, boots passing, bodies drifting in and out of view, but Sting is no longer squarely in front of me.
Which means I have to turn my head to see him.
I don’t dare.
Armen steps closer, his leg brushing the side of the chair as he repositions himself. He plants his feet and stays there, close enough that his presence registers without him touching me. It’s not comforting. It’s controlling.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“This isn’t about you,” he says.
“That’s what everyone says right before it is.”
He doesn’t react to that. Instead, he reaches down and adjusts the position of my chair again, pulling it back a few inches so my knees are no longer near the main path through the corridor.
The movement tugs at my wrists. The rope bites. I suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
Armen’s head snaps down. “You good?”
“My knee,” I say.
He crouches just enough to look at it, his gaze quick and assessing. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t apologize.
“Don’t shift your weight like that,” he says. “You’ll make it worse.”
“I didn’t plan to,” I snap.
“Plan better.”
I glare at the back of his mask. “You could untie me.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“Why not?”
“Because right now, tied up is predictable.”
He straightens and drags a second chair over with his boot, the legs screeching against the floor. He drops into it facing outward, one knee angled toward mine, his body creating a physical barrier without fully boxing me in.
From where I’m sitting, all I can see is Sting’s shoulder, his forearm resting casually on his thigh, his head tilted slightly like he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
“Don’t talk unless you need to,” Armen says.
“I need to talk,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
My wrists ache. My knee throbs again, the pain blooming sharp and insistent before settling into something deeper. I shift slightly, careful this time.
Armen’s hand comes down on the arm of my chair. Not hard. Just enough to be felt. “Be still.”
“I’m just adjusting.”
“You’re not adjusting,” he says. “You’re reacting.”
“To pain,” I say.
“To attention,” he replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is down here.”
Footsteps stop nearby. I can’t see who it is from this angle, but I feel the presence. Someone standing. Watching.
“Problem?” a voice asks.
Armen doesn’t look up. “No.”
Silence stretches. The person doesn’t leave immediately.
Armen lifts his head just enough to make eye contact. I don’t see the other man’s face, but I see the effect of Armen’s stare in the way the figure shifts, hesitates, then moves on.
I let out a slow breath. “You didn’t even say anything,” I murmur.
“I didn’t need to.”
“That’s… unsettling.”
“Good,” he says. “It should be.”
I bite back a dozen responses.
Another stretch of time passes. I lose track of how many people walk by. I focus on small, stupid things, the rhythm of Armen’s breathing, the faint scuff on the toe of his boot, the way the rope fibers feel rougher where they’ve started to fray.
Eventually, I ask, “Are you going to move me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When I decide where you’re least likely to draw interest.”
“I don’t have control over that,” I say.
“You have some,” he replies. “You just don’t like using it.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You think this is me liking anything?”
“No,” he says. “I think you’re learning.”
I glance sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the corridor beyond him. I don’t see Sting. That doesn’t mean he’s gone.
“Is he still there?” I ask.
Armen doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, he keeps his voice low. “Don’t worry about him.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not reassuring you,” he says. “I’m managing a situation.”
“And I’m what?” I ask. “The situation? Or is Sting the situation? Isn’t he part of your team?”
“You’re a variable,” he says, ignoring my question about Sting.
This settles into me slowly, unpleasant and heavy.
“I didn’t ask to be a variable,” I say.
“Not directly,” he agrees. “But you did sign up to be here.”
Someone bumps the back of my chair as they pass. It’s light, careless, but it jolts my knee enough that my vision blurs for a second. I gasp before I can stop myself.
Armen is on his feet instantly. “Hey,” he snaps, sharp enough to cut. “Watch it.”
A muttered apology follows. The footsteps retreat quickly.
Armen crouches again, this time closer, his face level with mine. “How bad?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“That wasn’t the question.”
I hesitate. “It hurts.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Both.”
He exhales slowly. “We’re moving.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He stands and grips the back of my chair again. This time, he doesn’t turn it. He drags it backward, guiding it away from the main corridor and toward a narrower passage off to the side.
“Brace yourself,” he says.
I shift my weight, biting down on the inside of my cheek as the movement sends another flare of pain through my leg. I don’t know why he can’t just let me walk.
As we start moving, I become acutely aware of how exposed I am. Being watched from a distance was one thing. Being pushed through the space, bound and seated, is another entirely.
I keep my head forward. I don’t look around. But I feel it. The movement draws attention whether I want it to or not. We pass under a flickering light. Shadows stretch and slide across the walls. Voices trail off as we move past them.
For one brief second, as Armen pauses to navigate a tight turn, I catch a glimpse down the corridor we just left.
Sting is still there. He hasn’t moved from his spot. He isn’t watching me anymore. He’s watching Armen. The look is unreadable behind the half-skeleton mask, but the stillness of it makes my stomach roil.
Armen resumes dragging the chair before I can look any longer. “Eyes forward,” he barks.
I obey.
The passage narrows, the noise dulling as we move away from the main corridor. Armen stops after a few more feet, positioning my chair against the wall, tucking it into a recessed space that’s more contained, less visible.
He steps back and assesses me like he’s checking a piece of equipment. “This is temporary,” he says.
“How temporary?” I ask.
“That depends on how the night goes.”
I swallow. “And if it goes badly?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you won’t be here.”
That should scare me more than it does.
Armen takes up position again, standing just off to my right this time, his presence a solid line between me and the open corridor.
I sit there, wrists aching, knee throbbing, heart still racing from the movement.
Being watched was unsettling. Being repositioned? I’m pretty sure that’s worse. Because now I know, without a doubt, that I’m no longer just something someone noticed.
I’m being managed, and I have no idea what that means.