Chapter 33
VI
The door closes behind us.
The sound echoes in the small space, bouncing once off the walls before settling into silence. The room is bare, a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a narrow bench along one wall. It’s cleaner than the corridors outside, the concrete floor swept, the air less heavy with dust and grime.
A single overhead fixture casts harsh light across everything.
My wrist is still in Sting’s grip, even after he’s removed my restraints. His other hand is still at my back. I can feel the warmth of him behind me, solid and close, my breath coming faster now that we’ve stopped.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then his hand slides from my lower back to my waist, fingers settling firm at my hips.
I suck in a breath before I can stop myself. “You can let go of me, now.”
“Not yet.”
I twist my wrist, testing his hold. It doesn’t budge.
“You dragged me all the way in here,” I snap. “Now, you’re going to tell me why.”
Sting steps closer. So close my back brushes his chest. His hand at my waist tightens, pressing lightly into my side. “You wanted answers,” he says near my ear. “This is where you start getting them.”
“This feels more like being trapped.”
“You’re not trapped,” he replies. “You’re protected.”
“That word again.”
He presses once more against my ribs. “You keep fighting it,” he murmurs. “But your body already knows the difference.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know what my body knows.”
He sighs, turning me until I’m facing him, his hands never leaving my waist.
Up close, the half-skeleton mask is even more unsettling, the bone-white jaw fixed and expressionless while his eyes search my face openly. Dark eyes. Intent. It makes me feel unbalanced, seeing only half of someone’s face, especially when I’m trying to read them.
I supposed that’s what it’s intended to do.
“You’re not scared,” he says.
“Should I be? Would that be more fun for you?”
“You’re not,” he repeats, ignoring my deflection. “You’re angry. Curious. Wired.”
I swallow. He’s not wrong, and that somehow makes it worse. “Don’t bother trying to read me.”
“I will,” he says. “That’s why I brought you here.”
“Like a prize?”
“Like someone who doesn’t belong in corners.” His hands shift slightly at my waist. “Like someone who’ll get eaten alive if she’s not careful.”
My heart pounds. “And you’re going to teach me to be careful?”
“No,” he says. “I’m going to teach you to be dangerous.”
The words send heat curling low in me despite everything, the fear, the anger, the exhaustion pressing down on me.
“You think I’m not already?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth shifts beneath the mask. It’s not a smile I can see, but something in his eyes changes. “I think you punch girls in the stomach when they threaten you,” he says. “That’s reactive. Danger is different.”
“In what way?”
“It involves control. Knowing when to push. When to wait. When to make people wonder what you’re capable of.”
I stare at him. “That’s what you do.”
“Yes.”
“And Armen. And Rogue.”
“Yes.”
“So,” I say, voice sharpening, “you’re going to turn me into one of you?”
His gaze holds mine. “I’m going to give you the tools to survive,” he says. “What you do with them is up to you.”
Silence stretches between us.
His hands are still at my waist. My pulse is still racing. I’m acutely aware of how close he is, of the solid line of his body in front of mine, of how easily he could pull me closer if he wanted to.
“Why me?” I ask.
“Because you didn’t lose your shit like most Runts,” he says. “Because you’re still asking questions even when you know you might not like the answers. Because when that woman out there tried to put you in your place, you didn’t flinch.”
“I’m a Runt,” I say. “She was right about that.”
“You’re a Runt with protection,” he corrects. “That’s different.”
“It’s also a target,” I reply.
His eyes darken. “Yup.”
“So you’re making me more dangerous by keeping me close.”
“I’m making you survivable,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
My breath catches. I want to pull away. I want to push him. I want to ask him a hundred more questions that I know I won’t get straight answers to. So, instead, I just stand there, caught in his grip, my body humming with tension I wish I could shake off.
Sting’s gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “You feel it,” he says.
“Feel what?”
“The shift,” he replies. “You’re not the same person who walked into the Hunt.”
“I don’t know about that,” I snap.
“You’ve already been claimed, chased, caught, and dragged through half the Rot,” he says. “You think that doesn’t change you?”
I swallow hard. “I’m not sure I want to change.”
“Too late for that, Vi.”
His hands shift at my waist, sliding just a fraction lower, settling where he can guide my body exactly where he wants it. Not forceful. Just... certain.
“This is where you decide,” he says.
“Decide what?”
“Whether you fight what’s happening,” he says, “or whether you use it to your benefit.”
My pulse jumps. “And if I fight it?”
“Then you’ll bleed for this place,” he replies. “It won’t be pleasant. And eventually, you’ll lose.”
“And if I use it?”
His gaze sharpens. “Then you become someone people can’t ignore. Believe me, it’s preferable. Unless you don’t want to survive.”
Heat spreads through me again, part fear, part something else entirely. God, I wish he’d stop touching me. I can’t fucking think straight.
“You make it sound simple,” I manage to say.
“It’s not,” he says.
“I don’t trust you,” I say.
“Good,” he replies. “You shouldn’t.”
“Then why should I listen to anything you say?”
He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching mine. “Because I’m the one standing between you and everyone else who’s noticed you,” he murmurs. “And right now, that’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
I shiver. “You’re not going to let me go?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“Even if I ask?”
“Even then. Besides, you know asking would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
I lift my chin, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “That’s not protection. That’s ownership.”
“Here,” he says, “they’re the same thing.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. My knee aches. My wrists sting where the rope bit. But all I can think about is how close he is. How warm his hands are. How his breath brushes my skin when he speaks.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“Now,” he says slowly, “you sit. You rest that knee. And then, you start learning how to move through this place without getting swallowed by it.”
He releases my waist slowly, his hands lingering for just a moment before he steps back. The absence of his touch is sudden. Disorienting.
“There’s a bench,” he says, gesturing to the narrow platform along the wall. “It’s not comfortable, but it’s better than the floor.”
I glance at it, then back at him. “You’re leaving me here?”
“Not for long,” he replies. “I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“When I’m ready.”
“Sting,” I call.
He pauses, glancing back.
“That girl,” I say. “The one in the work hub. The one I punched.”
His expression doesn’t change. “What about her?”
“She hates me.”
“Yes.”
“Is she going to be a problem?”
His gaze lingers on me for a long moment. “She already is,” he says. “But I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“By making sure she understands what happens if she touches what’s mine. What’s ours.”
The possessive edge in his voice sends heat crawling up my neck.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “Whether you’ve accepted it yet or not.”
Then he opens the door and steps out. The lock slides into place with a soft metallic click.
I stand there in the middle of the small room, heart pounding, skin still warm where he touched me. Outside, the Rot hums on.
Inside, everything feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.