Chapter 35
VI
Sting stands in front of me for a long moment, arms crossed, his gaze traveling over my face like he’s trying to decide something. The overhead lamp casts harsh shadows across his mask. Strangely, I think I’m getting used to the damn thing.
It’s crazy, what becomes the new normal.
Finally, he moves. He sits on the edge of the cot beside me, not touching but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his body. Close enough that our knees almost brush.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then: “You done?”
I blink. “Done with what?”
“Acting like you can win every fight down here.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His voice is flat, controlled. “And if you keep doing it, you’re going to get yourself killed before I can help you.”
Heat crawls up my neck—part anger, part embarrassment. “She was threatening me.”
“She was testing you,” he corrects. “And you failed.”
“I stood up for myself—”
“You gave her exactly what she wanted.” His gaze sharpens. “You showed her you’re reactive. Emotional. Easy to bait.”
“I’m not going to just take it,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to take it,” he replies. “I’m asking you to be smarter about when you fight back.”
“And when is that?”
“When you can win. You don’t know when you’ll round a corner and she has two or three other guys or girls with her. You think you can take them all?”
Silence stretches between us. He has a point.
His gaze softens. Not gentle. Just... less sharp. “Tell me about before,” he says.
The shift catches me off guard. “Before what?”
“Before the Hunt. Before you decided to walk into the Rot.”
I wrinkle my face at him. “Why does that matter?”
“It matters.”
I hesitate, studying his face, or what I can see of it behind the mask.
“There’s not much to tell,” I finally say.
“My father was the mayor. He got blamed for Rothwell’s collapse.
After that...” I trail off. “After that, people stopped talking to us. Stopped looking at us. We became pariahs. He disappeared, was disposed of. Murdered. I had nothing going for me, which is why I guess I signed on to the Hunt.”
Sting’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Family?”
“Nope.”
“Friends?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Not after everything fell apart. People I thought I knew just... disappeared. Friends turned their backs on me.”
“No one left?” he presses. “No one at all?”
Something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. “Why are you asking me this?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes search my face, calculating something I can’t read.
“Sting,” I say, sharper now. “Why are you asking?”
Finally, he speaks. “Because someone came looking for you.”
The words land like ice water. I sit up straighter, ignoring the pain shooting through my knee.
“What? Are you kidding?”
“A few days ago,” he says evenly. “Someone showed up at the perimeter. Asking questions. Trying to find out if anyone had seen you.”
My heart pounds. “Who?”
“We didn’t get a name.”
“What did they look like?”
His mouth tightens beneath the mask. “We didn’t get that close.”
“Then how do you know they were looking for me?”
“Because,” he says, “they knew your name. And they knew you entered the Hunt.”
My breath catches. “What did you do?”
“We told them to leave.”
“And did they?”
Sting’s gaze hardens. “For now.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
“If they come back,” he says slowly, “it won’t just be their life at risk. It’ll be yours too.”
“Why mine?”
“Because the Rot doesn’t tolerate breaches,” he replies. “And if someone from outside keeps pushing, we’ll have to assume you’re the reason.”
The confusion makes my head spin. “I didn’t ask anyone to come here looking for me. I didn’t even tell anyone I was coming here.”
“I believe you. But people hear shit,” he says. “You know that.”
I swallow hard. “What do you want me to do?”
“Think,” he says. “Think about who might care enough to risk coming here. Who might not take no for an answer.”
I wrack my brain. “I told you, I don’t have anyone left.”
“Then think harder,” he says. “Because if they show up again, we’ll have to deal with them. And, Vi—”
His palm is warm, rough, his fingers firm against my cheek. “You don’t want to see how we deal with threats.”
My pulse hammers against my ribs.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, brushing my cheek, a slow, deliberate touch that makes my breath hitch. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair. Not pulling. Just... holding.
“Who do you think it was?” he asks.
I try to focus on the question, but all I can think about is how close he is. How his fingers feel against my scalp. How his breath is warm against my face.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Truly.”
“Guess.”
I run through the list again, in my head. It’s so short, it’s painful.
“There was Mara,” I say slowly. “My best friend. But we haven’t spoken in over a year. Not since I—” I stop myself.
“Not since what?”
“Not since we argued about my father. Whether he was innocent or guilty.”
Sting’s gaze sharpens. “Would she come looking for you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” My chest tightens. “She always thought she could fix things. Save people.”
“Does she know you entered the Hunt?”
“She might have heard, but not from me.”
His fingers tighten slightly in my hair. Not painful. Just... present. “If she comes back,” he says, “we won’t let her leave.”
The words send a chill through me. “You’d kill her?”
“If we had to.”
“She’s just trying to help… if it was her. I don’t know why she would give a shit, though. She didn’t care when I needed her on the outside. Why would she look for me now?”
“She’s risking your life,” he interrupts. “And mine. And everyone else’s down here who depends on the Rot staying locked up tight.”
My throat tightens. “I’ll tell her to stop looking. If I can just—”
“You can’t.” His voice is firm. “You’re not leaving. And no one from outside gets in.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” My voice cracks slightly. “Just hope she gives up?”
“Yes.”
Bile rises in my throat.
“I know this is hard,” he murmurs. “But you need to let go of whoever you were before.”
“I wasn’t much before, which is why I guess I signed on. So who am I now?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then returns to my eyes. “Mine.”
Heat blooms through me despite everything including the fear, the anger, and the exhaustion pressing down on me. I’m tired. So tired.
“You keep saying that,” I whisper.
“Because it’s true.” He traces my lower lip slowly, deliberately.
My breath stutters.
“You feel it,” he says.
“Feel what?”
“This.” His hand slides to the back of my neck again, fingers curling into my hair, and he pulls me closer. Not roughly. Just... insistently.
Until there’s barely any space between us.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he murmurs.
“Should I be?”
“Probably.” His mouth is so close now that I can feel the mask against my lips. “But you’re not.”
“Maybe I’m just stupid.”
A low sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a growl. “You’re not stupid.”
“Then what am I?”
“Curious,” he says. “Stubborn. Reckless.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is.”
I carefully push off his mask as he closes the distance and before I even get a good look at him, his mouth finds mine, not soft, not gentle, but not brutal either. Just... fucking sexy as hell.
His lips are warm, firm, moving against mine with a certainty that makes my pulse spike.
His hand tightens in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and I let him.
Because despite everything, despite the danger, despite the fear, despite the girl who wants to hurt me and the supposed friend who might die looking for me, all I can think about is how good this feels.
I kiss him back without thinking, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, my body leaning into his. I want to feel good, even if only for a moment. To forget who I am. And where I am.
He makes a low sound in his throat, approval, maybe, and his other hand comes to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m practically in his lap.
The kiss deepens.
His tongue brushes against my lower lip, and I open for him without hesitation. The taste of him is salt and something sharper, something that makes my head spin.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, fingers splaying wide, holding me against him like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
I don’t.
I can’t.
My knee protests the position, but I barely notice. All I can feel is him, his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the solid heat of him surrounding me.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
His forehead rests against mine, his hand still tangled in my hair, his other hand still firm at my back.
“That,” he murmurs, “is what I meant.”
My voice comes out shaky. “About what?”
“About you being mine.”
Heat curls low in my stomach. “One kiss doesn’t make me yours.”
His mouth curves and I’m surprised by how handsome he is. Almost wholesome, if that’s possible for someone who lives in a place called the Rot. I want to tell him he’s hot, but I don’t. Not sure it would go over well.
“No, one kiss does not make you mine,” he agrees. “Because you already are, kiss or not.”
He releases me slowly, his hands lingering for just a moment before he pulls back completely.
I’m left sitting on the cot, heart pounding, lips still tingling, my whole body humming with something like appreciation for momentarily taking me away from the shitshow that is my life.
Sting stands, mask in hand, his gaze traveling over my face one more time, assessing, memorizing.
Christ, I could stare at him all day.
“Get some rest,” he says.
“Not sure that’s gonna happen.”
“Try anyway.” He heads for the door.
“Sting,” I call.
He pauses, glancing back.
“Who do you think it was?” I ask. “Really. The person looking for me?”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment. “Someone who cares about you. Or who doesn’t care about you and wants something,” he says. “Either way, that makes them dangerous.”
Then he’s gone and I sit there on the cot, fingers lifting to touch my lips where his mouth just was.