Chapter 34
VI
Sting returns sooner than I expected.
I’ve barely had time to doze off when I hear footsteps in the corridor outside.
The lock disengages. The door swings open. He stands in the doorway, half-skeleton mask catching the harsh overhead light, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.
“Up,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“We’re moving.”
“Already?”
“Up,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I push myself up and off the bench, wincing when my knee protests. Sting’s gaze drops to it briefly, then returns to my face.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
His mouth shifts beneath the mask, something that might be amusement. “Not really.”
He steps into the room and reaches for my wrist again. His grip is firm, familiar now in a way that twists my insides.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere you can actually rest,” he replies.
“That wasn’t rest?”
“Do you want to stay in that shitty little closet? I’m sure it can be arranged.”
I don’t respond.
The corridor is dimmer than before, the lights spaced farther apart. The air feels cooler here, damper, like we’re moving deeper into the Rot’s underbelly. My knee aches with every step, the joint stiffening despite the brief reprieve.
I stumble once, and Sting’s hand tightens at my back, steadying me without slowing our pace.
“Slow down,” I mutter.
“You’re fine.”
“My knee isn’t.”
“I know.” His voice is flat, unbothered. “You’ll survive.”
We pass fewer people here. The corridors feel emptier, quieter, the sounds of the Rot muffled by distance. Somewhere far off, I hear voices, low, indistinct, but they fade as we move.
Then I hear it. Footsteps. Not ours. Someone else’s. Behind us.
I glance back over my shoulder and see a figure moving through the dim light. Not hurrying. Not hiding. Just... following. My pulse quickens.
It’s her.
The girl from the work hub. The one I punched. She’s maybe twenty paces behind us, her stride unhurried, her arms loose at her sides. She doesn’t look away when I meet her eyes. She just keeps walking.
“Sting,” I say.
“I know.”
His hand presses more firmly into my back, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t turn around. Just keeps moving forward like she’s not even there. But I can feel the tension in him now. The shift in his posture. The way his fingers curl slightly against my spine.
“Looks like she’s following us,” I say.
“Yup.”
“What for? She can’t do anything to me.”
“Maybe not. But she wants you to know she’s there.”
A burst of adrenaline runs through me. “I’ll beat her ass,” I scoff.
“Keep walking,” he says.
So I do.
But the footsteps don’t fade. They stay steady, deliberate, matching our pace like a shadow we can’t shake.
The corridor narrows further, the walls pressing closer, the ceiling dipping lower. The light from the last fixture barely reaches this far, casting everything in shades of gray and black.
And still, she follows.
My knee throbs. My skin prickles with the awareness of her presence behind us, relentless and patient. And my fingers itch with the urge to throw a punch or two.
Then her voice cuts through the silence. “Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart.”
The words are light. Almost conversational. But they land like a blade between my shoulder blades.
I stiffen instantly. “Let me at her,” I say.
Sting stops. Not abruptly. Just a smooth, controlled halt in the middle of the corridor. His hand stays firm at my back, but his body shifts slightly, angling toward the sound of her voice without fully turning.
“Walk away,” he says to her.
His voice is low. Flat. The kind of tone that doesn’t ask twice.
Silence.
I glance back again and see her standing there, maybe ten paces behind us now. She’s not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching, her arms still loose at her sides, her posture casual.
Like she’s not afraid at all.
“I’m just walking,” she says. “Same as you.”
“You’re following,” Sting replies.
“The Rot’s not that big,” she says. “Sometimes people end up in the same place.”
Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. “Especially when someone gets... noticed.”
I close my eyes and count to three, grabbing for control. I don’t need any crap from this punk bitch. I have enough problems at the moment. I open my mouth to say so, control be damned. but Sting’s hand tightens at my back, and I shut up. For now.
“Last chance,” he says to her.
The girl’s mouth curves. Not a smile. Something colder. “Or what?”
“Or you’ll find out what happens when people test me.”
“Let me at her,” I whisper.
“No.”
Her expression doesn’t change. But after a long, deliberate pause, she takes a step back. Then another.
“Fine,” she says lightly. “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”
The words are directed at me. Not Sting.
Me.
Then she turns and walks back the way she came, her footsteps fading slowly into the distance.
“Go fuck yourself, you cunty bitch,” I holler.
“Goddammit. Keep your mouth shut,” Sting hisses, his hand clamping around my upper arm. He yanks me hard enough that I stumble. Pain flares in my knee when I catch my weight.
I whisper through my teeth, half in anger, half in pain. “Why should I?”
“Because you have a lot to lose. She doesn’t. That makes you unevenly matched, no matter how badass you think you are. She’d trade her life to hurt you. Would you trade yours to hurt her?”
Sting stares me down until the girl is gone, and when he finally moves, his hand shifts from my arm back to my waist, pulling me closer against his side. “Keep moving,” he says.
The anger leaves my legs shaky, but I force them to keep moving. “So. I’m brand-new here and already have a problem,” I laugh.
“Yes.”
“You said you’d handle it. But I can take care of myself. Just sayin’.”
“Let me handle it.”
“When?”
His gaze flicks down to me briefly. “When she pushes too far.”
“And if she does something before that?” I press. “I’ll teach her a lesson. I’m telling you that right now.”
“No, you will not, Vi.”
The certainty in his voice should be reassuring. But all I can think about is the way she looked at me. The cold calculation in her eyes. The way she said sweetheart like it was poison dripping off her tongue.
“She knows I’m with you,” I say. “And she still doesn’t care about consequences.”
“She cares,” Sting replies. “She just thinks she can get away with it.”
“Can she?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. Darker. “Not for long.”
“Or she thinks I’m not worth the protection,” I mutter.
His arm tightens around me. “She’s wrong.”
Finally, we reach another door. Larger than the first, the metal warmer to the touch like it’s been opened recently.
Sting pushes it open and guides me inside.
The room beyond is bigger than the last one. A low cot against one wall. A narrow table with a lamp bolted to it. A couple of crates stacked neatly in the corner. The air is warmer here, heavy with the faint smell of metal and housecleaning products.
It feels... lived in. Not quite comfortable but better than the last closet I was in.
Sting closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes softly in the space.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then his hand slides from my waist, and he steps back slightly, giving me space to breathe. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the cot.
I hesitate, then lower myself slowly onto the edge of the mattress. It dips beneath my weight, the springs creaking in protest.
Sting remains standing in front of me, his gaze traveling over my face—assessing, calculating.
“She’s going to keep coming, you know,” I say.
“Yup.”
“And you’re just going to let her?”
“I’m going to let her think I’m letting her,” he replies. “Until she crosses the line.”
“What line?”
His eyes darken. “The one where she stops being a nuisance and starts being a threat.”
I swallow hard. “And then?”
“Then she disappears.”
The words are spoken so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it takes a moment for them to fully land. When they do, a chill runs through me.
“You’d kill her?” I whisper.
“If I had to.”
“Just because she’s bothering me?”
His gaze sharpens. “Just because she’s threatening what’s mine,” he corrects.
Heat crawls up my neck despite the fear curling up it at the same time. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “And the sooner you accept that, the easier this gets.”
I stare at him, heart pounding, not sure if I’m more afraid of him or of how much I want to believe him.
“Rest,” he says, his tone shifting, less sharp, more controlled. “I’ll be back.”
“When?”
He moves toward the door without answering me, and panic flares in my chest.
“Sting,” I call.
He pauses, glancing back.
“What if she tries something while you’re gone? I can’t say I won’t fight back. Because I will. Just so you know.”
His expression doesn’t change. “The door locks from the outside with my key,” he says. “No one gets in unless I let them.”
“And if someone picks the lock?”
“They won’t live long enough to regret it.”
Then he’s gone. The lock slides into place with a soft, final click.
I sit on the cot, staring at the closed door, my pulse still racing, my skin still prickling with the memory of her voice.
Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart.
I can’t stop thinking about the look in her eyes.
I just hope she saw the look in mine.