Chapter 29
ARMEN
I keep Vi where I put her.
The recess is shallow, just enough to break the line of sight from the main corridor. Not hidden. Hidden gets noticed. This spot is boring. It looks like storage. It looks like nothing.
She sits exactly the way I told her to. Shoulders back enough to breathe.
Chin level. Eyes forward. Her wrists are still bound behind the chair, rope cinched tight enough that she can’t get clever without making noise.
Her knee is swollen under the fabric, the joint stiffening the longer she stays still.
She looks like she’s trying not to look like prey.
That effort is the only reason I don’t move her again.
A few people pass the opening and glance in. They keep walking when they see me. That part is predictable. I designed it that way.
Vi’s gaze stays fixed on the wall in front of her. I can tell she wants to turn her head. I can tell she’s fighting it. The muscle along her jaw jumps once, then stills.
I hear Rogue before I see him.
His footsteps have a rhythm I recognize, easy, unhurried, like he’s never worried about where he’s going or who he’ll run into. He appears at the mouth of the passage and pauses, one hand resting on the wall as if he’s considering whether to step fully in.
Half-skeleton mask, just like Sting’s and mine. He tilts his head slightly, looking past me to Vi.
“Seems cozy,” he says.
“It’s temporary,” I answer.
Rogue’s gaze flicks to me. “Temporary is doing a lot of work down here.”
Always the smart-ass.
He takes a step closer anyway, enough that he can see Vi clearly. Vi doesn’t look at him. I watch her throat move when she swallows.
Rogue’s voice drops, casual. “She always like this? Quiet when she’s cornered?”
“She’s not cornered,” I say.
Rogue hums like he’s amused. “Sure.”
He steps into the recess, not close enough to touch her but close enough that he’s occupying the same pocket of air. He glances at the rope around her wrists, then at her knee.
“That looks like it hurts,” he says to her. “Your knee.”
Vi doesn’t answer.
Rogue waits a beat, then shrugs. “Okay. So this is how we’re doing it.”
“Rogue,” I warn.
He holds up one hand in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not here to play. I’m here because you pulled her off the corridor like she was about to combust.”
I keep my voice even. “You saw what happened.”
“I saw you move her,” he says. “I didn’t see why.”
“You don’t need to,” I reply.
Rogue leans back against the wall, shoulders loose. “I heard Sting went and made it loud.”
Vi’s fingers flex once behind the chair. Rope creaks softly.
I shift my stance just enough that she sees it in her peripheral.
She goes still again.
Rogue watches that interaction and lets out a quiet laugh. “Oh. You’re training her.”
“I’m managing a situation,” I say.
“Same thing,” Rogue replies. He turns his head slightly, looking out toward the corridor again. “Where is he?”
“Close,” I answer.
“As usual.”
Rogue’s gaze returns to Vi. Not hungry. Not soft. Evaluating. Like he’s seeing where she fits. “Such a good Runt,” he says.
Vi’s head turns an inch before she catches herself. Not enough to fully look at him. Enough that I know she heard.
Rogue notices too, and that amuses him. “Ah. There it is.”
Vi speaks before I can stop her. “What does that mean, a good Runt?” Her voice is controlled, but I can hear the edge. She’s choosing to engage. That is either courage or a mistake.
Rogue’s head tilts. “You don’t know what a Runt is?”
Vi’s eyes cut to me for the briefest second.
Rogue makes a soft, sympathetic sound that is not actually sympathetic. “Oh, Armen. You didn’t tell her.”
“I didn’t have to,” I say.
Rogue’s grin is audible. “You always think you don’t have to.”
Vi’s posture tightens. “What?”
Rogue spreads his hands. “It’s what you are when you’re inside the Rot. Useful, but not… featured.”
Vi’s eyes narrow. “I know what a Runt is. But a featured Runt?”
“It’s a kinder word than most,” Rogue says.
“Rogue,” I snap.
He ignores me, still speaking to Vi. “Runts don’t get masks. They don’t get the ceremony. They don’t get the rules explained. They get put where they’re needed.”
Vi’s breathing changes. Not faster. Shallower. The silence that follows is thick in the small recess. Vi holds herself very still, like movement might make Rogue’s words true in a way they aren’t yet.
I watch her face, the way her eyes sharpen as she processes. Anger, first. Then calculation. The same stubbornness that got her into this mess in the first place.
Rogue keeps going because he can’t help himself. “Runts aren’t temporary,” he adds, like it’s a throwaway line. He says it lightly. Almost offhand.
But Vi goes rigid. It’s immediate. Her shoulders lock. Her chin lifts half an inch. Her eyes flash, and for the first time since I brought her here, she looks like she might actually lunge out of a chair with her hands tied behind it.
“What?” she says again.
Rogue blinks, like he’s surprised she heard him. Then he realizes what he just said. He turns his head toward me slowly.
“Oh.”
He does that on purpose.
Rogue huffs a laugh. “Okay. So you really didn’t tell her.”
Vi’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Not temporary?”
Rogue looks back at her. “That wasn’t for you.”
“It was said in front of me,” Vi snaps.
Rogue’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “True.”
Vi’s gaze burns. “Answer me.”
Rogue opens his mouth, maybe to deflect, maybe to joke, and then stops. “The others have been asking about her,” he says to me.
“I’m handling it.”
Sting appears out of nowhere, his gaze flicking past me to Vi, then back. “By keeping her where everyone can wonder?” His voice is flat. Not a question. A statement.
“This spot is cozy, I’ll give you that,” Rogue observes from his spot against the wall.
“It’s temporary,” I answer, though the word sounds thinner now.
Rogue’s gaze flicks to me. “Temporary is doing a lot of work down here.”
“What did you say?” Sting asks.
Rogue gives a soft whistle. “Nothing. Just—talking.”
Sting steps in. Not hurried. Not aggressive. Just certain.
He stops beside Vi’s chair, close enough that the space between them disappears. He looks down at her, eyes unreadable in the dim light, and Vi’s chin lifts as if her body reacts to his presence before she chooses to.
Her voice comes out lower than before. “He said I’m not temporary.”
Sting’s attention flicks to Rogue. “You told her that?”
Rogue’s head tilts, innocent. “I didn’t tell her anything. I said a word. She’s got ears.”
Sting makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh.
He turns his gaze back to Vi. Then, without thinking, without hesitation, his hand comes down to her shoulder.
Just rests there. Not a squeeze. Not a caress.
Not reassurance. Contact. Ownership in the simplest, most brutal form: I can touch you and no one can stop me.
Vi’s breath catches. Her shoulders jerk as if she’s about to pull away, and then she remembers she’s bound to a chair and stills instead. I watch her throat move as she swallows.
Sting doesn’t remove his hand.
My ribs tighten. I tell myself it’s irritation, Sting forcing my hand, disrupting the order I’m trying to maintain. But the heat crawling up the back of my neck knows better. I say nothing, just clench my teeth to the point of pain.
Rogue’s head turns slightly toward me, like he’s watching my reaction instead of Sting’s. I force my reflection flat. He sees through it anyway.
So I keep my gaze on Vi. Because this is what matters.
Vi doesn’t look at Sting’s hand. She doesn’t flinch again. She holds still, eyes locked on him. “What’s going on here?” she asks, voice tight.
Sting’s hand stays where it is, shifting once, a small adjustment, like he’s settling more comfortably. “You’re here,” he says.
Vi’s eyes narrow. “No shit. I am also a Runt,” she says, like she’s getting used to the idea.
Sting pauses. Then he answers with the kind of bluntness that makes people bleed. “Yes. You are.”
Vi goes utterly still. A beat passes. Then she says, very quietly, “And what exactly does that mean?”
Rogue clears his throat as if he’s about to talk again. Sting doesn’t look at him.
“It means you’re useful,” Sting says.
“To who?”
Sting’s hand remains on her shoulder. He doesn’t pet. He doesn’t comfort. He simply keeps contact like it’s a fact. “To the Rot,” he says. “To us.”
Rogue shifts, amusement fading into something sharper. “Sting—”
Sting cuts him off. “She asked.”
Vi’s voice trembles once, then steadies. “Not temporary. What does that mean?”
Sting’s gaze holds hers. “That depends,” he says.
“On what?”
Sting leans slightly, enough that his mask is closer to her face. Not touching. Just close. “On whether you survive being noticed,” he says. “You see, being noticed here in the Rot is not a good thing.”
I hear Vi inhale through her nose, controlled. I see the way she digs her heels into the floor as if anchoring herself. “And if I don’t want this?” she asks.
Sting shrugs. “Then you shouldn’t have joined the Hunt.”
The words are cold. Not cold for the sake of cruelty. Just true.
Vi’s eyes flash, anger rising. “I didn’t come here to be owned.”
Sting presses once against her shoulder, subtle. A reminder of the contact. “No,” he agrees. “You came here to get something.”
Vi’s lips part, then close again. She doesn’t deny it.
Rogue watches her with interest now, like he’s seeing her differently than he did ten minutes ago.
I step forward, just enough to shift the balance in the recess. “That’s enough,” I say.
Sting doesn’t look at me, but his hand finally lifts from Vi’s shoulder, slowly, deliberately, like he’s choosing the moment to remove it rather than respond to my command.
Vi remains tense where his palm was, as if her body is still expecting pressure.
Rogue exhales. “Well. That’s one way to do introductions.”