Chapter 37
VI
I wake to the sound of the lock disengaging.
For a moment, I don’t move. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing steady, listening to the soft metallic scrape of the bolt sliding free. My body is stiff from sleeping on the cot, my knee throbbing dully beneath the blanket someone must have draped over me while I was out.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember sitting on the edge of the mattress, fingers touching my lips where Sting kissed me.
I remember the spiral, the outsider looking for me, the girl’s cold smile, the realization that being a Runt isn’t temporary.
That I’m stuck here. Forever. And then.. . nothing.
The door swings open.
I keep my eyes closed for another second, trying to gauge who it is by sound alone. Footsteps. Steady. Not rushed. Easy, like whoever it is has all the time in the world.
Not Sting. His rhythm is different, kinetic, purposeful, like he’s always moving toward something. Not Armen either. Armen moves quietly, deliberately, like every step is calculated.
This is...
“I know you’re awake.”
Rogue.
I open my eyes.
He’s standing in the doorway, half-skeleton mask in place, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s wearing dark pants and a fitted shirt that’s seen better days, but somehow he makes it look effortless instead of desperate. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.
Amused.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says, thrusting a water bottle at me.
I sit up slowly, wincing when my knee protests. When the blanket slides off my shoulders and pools around my waist, I realize I slept in my underwear, a black camisole with a little hole at the hem, and some light blue panties. Rogue does not bother looking away.
“What time is it?” I chug my water.
“Early,” he replies. “But not too early. You slept longer than I expected.”
I rub my face, trying to shake off the fog in my head. “Where’s Sting?”
“Busy.”
“Doing what?”
Rogue’s mouth curves beneath the mask. “Things that don’t involve standing guard over sleeping Runts.”
I glare at him. “I don’t need a guard.”
“And yet,” he says, gesturing to the locked door behind him, “here I am.”
I push the blanket aside, swing my legs over the edge of the cot, and pull my cami down, as if that’s going to cover my ass. I reach for my jeans, neatly folded on the floor. My knee is stiff, swollen, the joint hot to the touch. I test it carefully while I dress, putting weight on it, then more.
It hurts. But it holds. Back in the day, I might go to a doctor for something like this.
Pretty sure that’s not an option in the Rot.
Rogue watches me with the kind of focus that makes my skin prickle. Not hungry. Not threatening. Just... curious. Like he’s cataloging every movement, every wince, every breath.
“You’re limping less,” he observes.
“I’m getting better at hiding it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I stand fully, bracing myself against the wall for a second before letting go. My head swims briefly, then clears. “Why are you here, Rogue?”
“I’m here to escort you to the work hub,” he says.
“I don’t need an escort.”
“Don’t be stupid. You do,” he replies. “Also, Sting’s orders.”
My stomach drops at the mention of Sting’s name. I can still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine, the way his hand tangled in my hair, the heat that exploded through me. It revisits, and I squirm uncomfortably inside my blue jeans, hoping Rogue doesn’t notice.
“Well. Sting doesn’t own me,” I say like a brat.
Rogue’s grin widens. “He thinks he does. So does Armen.” He tilts his head slightly. “And honestly? So do I.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Is that how things work here?”
“Here in the Rot?” Rogue sneers, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room. “That’s exactly how this works. What did you think?”
He’s closer now. Not crowding me but near enough that I can see the details of his mask, the thin cracks in the paint, the way the white bone curves. Near enough that I catch the faint smell of soap and something metallic, like he’s been working with his hands.
I swallow hard. “What if I refuse?”
He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Then you stay locked in this room,” he replies. “And you don’t eat. And you don’t get to prove you’re more than just a Runt with a chip on her shoulder.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Frequently,” he agrees, his tone light. “But I’m an asshole who’s offering you breakfast and a chance to build a new life.”
I stare at him for a long moment, weighing my options. There aren’t many. Actually, there aren’t any.
“Fine,” I say, as if I have a choice.
Rogue steps aside, gesturing toward the door. “After you.”
I move toward the corridor, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. Not rough. Just... firm. His fingers wrap around my forearm, warm through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“Vi,” he says.
I look up at him.
His expression shifts, less amused, more serious. The sharpness in his eyes softens a fraction. “You did well yesterday.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “What?”
“You held yourself well. Made good choices.”
I scoff. “Sting might think otherwise.”
“Yeah. But I’m not Sting. Regardless, be careful how you conduct yourself. At all times.”
“Why?”
“Or you’ll learn the hard way that the Rot doesn’t give second chances. It’s a strange place, Vi. Learn it before you even think about breaking its rules.”
He releases my arm and steps back, waiting.
I move past him into the corridor, and the cool air hits me immediately. The hum of the Rot is louder now with voices in the distance, the clang of metal on metal, the scrape of boots on concrete. Somewhere far off, someone is laughing, the sound out of place against the low murmur of activity.
Strange to think someone could find a reason to laugh in this place.
Rogue falls into step beside me, close enough that I can feel his presence but not so close that it feels suffocating.
For a few paces, we walk in silence.
Then: “So. Sting kissed you,” he says.
I nearly trip. “Excuse me?”
“Last night,” Rogue continues, as if we’re discussing the weather. “He kissed you. How was it?”
My face burns. “None of your business.”
“It is, actually,” he replies. “We share everything down here. Resources. Information.” He pauses. “Women.”
I stop walking and turn to face him. “I’m not a resource.”
“No,” he agrees, meeting my gaze. “You’re not. But you are something we’re all watching very closely.”
“Why?”
His eyes glitter behind the mask. “Because you’re dangerous, Vi. Not in the way most people down here are dangerous. You’re dangerous because you don’t always know when to stay small. And dangerous things either get controlled—” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “—or they get destroyed.”
“And which one am I?”
“That,” he says softly, “depends on you.”
“You just told me I was doing well.”
“I did say that. About yesterday.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. My pulse pounds in my ears. I can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s measuring me, calculating.
“Come on. You’re going to be late.”
I follow him, my mind spinning.
Sting kissed me. And apparently, everyone knows. Which means Armen knows. Which means...
I don’t know what that means.
We turn a corner and the corridor widens as we pass by what used to be the mall’s second-tier shops, like those that sold baseball caps and T-shirts.
A few Rotters pass us, their eyes flicking to me briefly before looking away.
One of them, an unmasked man with a scarred face and a bored expression, lingers a second too long, his gaze dragging over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Rogue notices. “Move along,” he says to the guy.
He does. Immediately.
“You’re scaring people,” I mutter.
“Good,” Rogue replies. “That’s the point.”
We keep walking, my knee aching with every step. I force myself not to favor it too much. I don’t want Rogue, or anyone else, to see weakness.
“Question,” I say.
“Answer,” he replies.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Escorting me. Protecting me. Pretending like I matter.”
Rogue doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, less playful. “Because you do matter.”
“To who?”
He glances at me. “To all of us.”
The words settle into my chest, heavy and warm and confusing. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.
Seriously. I just met these guys. Do they really give a shit about me? Or are they just toying with me, like a rat in a cage?
“It’ll make sense,” he replies. “Eventually.”
We reach a junction where the corridor splits in two directions. Rogue steers me left, his hand briefly touching my lower back, a light, guiding pressure that sends a shiver through me despite myself.
“One more thing,” he says.
“What?”
“That girl who was following you yesterday?” His voice drops. “You’re going to see her in the work hub.”
My adrenaline spikes. “And?”
“And you’re going to see her,” he says. “And she’s going to see you. And when she does, you’re going to keep your mouth shut and your head down.”
Not fucking likely.
“I’m not afraid of her.”
“You should be,” Rogue says flatly.
“Why?”
“Because you have something she doesn’t.”
“What?”
Rogue’s eyes smile. “Us.”
Like these guys are some kind of goddamn prize. But I keep that thought to myself. I am, after all, dependent on them, at least at the moment. It’s not like there’s anyone else here clamoring to protect my ass.
And yet, I want to argue. I want to tell him that’s not true, that I don’t have them, that this is all just... what? Some twisted game?
But I can’t. Because part of me, some small, treacherous part, knows he’s right.
We reach the work hub, and the noise inside is already rising, voices, movement, the scrape of crates against concrete. The air smells like people who haven’t showered in a while.
Rogue stops just outside the doorway and turns to face me. “Remember what I said,” he murmurs. “Keep your head down. Don’t give her a reason.”
“And if she gives me one?”
His eyes darken. “Then you wait. And you let us handle it.”
“I don’t need you to handle my fights.”
“Down here?” Rogue says. “You do. The rules are different. You should know that by now, for Christ’s sake.
I’m not telling you this to blow hot air.
I’m serious. You need to fucking listen, Vi.
This isn’t the outside. It’s a different world with different rules.
You don’t want to piss anyone off, least of all Armen, Sting, and me. ”
Then he steps aside and gestures toward the doorway. “Go on. Armen’s already in there. He’ll keep an eye on you.”
I pull my shoulders back, my pulse racing, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Then I step past him into the work hub.
The noise hits me first, voices overlapping, the clatter of supplies being sorted, the low whine of activity that never quite stops in this place.
And then I see her. She’s at one of the tables near the back, her hands moving slowly through a crate of supplies. But her eyes aren’t on her work. They’re on me. Her mouth curves slowly. Not a smile. Something colder.
While my palms itch to smack that look off her face, I succeed in forcing myself to look away. Small victories.
That’s when I see Armen. He’s standing near the center of the room, half-skeleton mask in place, arms crossed over his chest. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is sharp, focused.
On me. Watching. Always watching.
Rogue’s voice comes from behind me, low and amused. “Good luck, Vi.”
Then he’s gone.