Chapter 41
VI
The Rot eats together.
Not in some cozy, communal way. More like survival in the open.
A part of the food court is sectioned off with a crude wall, as if we need privacy.
What remains of the old colorful signs touting pizza and teriyaki chicken is faded and half torn down.
The counters where burgers and smoothies were once sold are stripped to concrete and metal.
Long scavenged tables stretch across the space, mismatched chairs pulled from everywhere.
Lanterns hang from old support beams, casting uneven light across the room.
It smells like cheap fast food, greasy and burnt.
People line up at one of the former fast-food counters where Runts dish out whatever passes for dinner—stew, bread, something fried I can’t identify. No menus. No choices. You take what you get.
I grab a dented metal tray and fall into line. No one bothers me. Some glance. Most don’t. I’m learning what looks mean nothing and which mean everything. When I reach the front, a woman dumps a scoop of stew onto my tray and slides a chunk of bread beside it.
“Move.”
I do. I scan the tables, looking for an empty spot. Most groups are already formed. Rotters laughing loudly. Runts clustered together, quieter, guarded. I finally spot an open chair near the end of a table where a few women sit eating. I slide in.
One of them looks up. Young. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun. Tired eyes. “You’re new,” she says.
“Is it that obvious?”
She snorts. “You’re clean.”
I glance down at my shirt, already smudged from work but apparently not enough. “Give it time.”
“You’re Vi, right?”
“Word travels fast.”
She shrugs. “Permanent Runt. Chosen by the half-skeleton boys. Yeah. It traveled.”
Great.
We eat in silence for a few moments, the stew tasting like salt and whatever meat they could get their hands on. I’m hungrier than I realized.
“Where they stick you?” she asks eventually.
“A room near the old jewelry store,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift. “You got one of the good ones. But you might get one even better if you play your cards right?”
“Better?” I repeat.
“Door locks. No leaks. Some of them are just curtained-off corners.” She pauses. “You got a bed?”
“A narrow bunk.”
“Not bad.”
I snort despite myself.
“Where’d you get those boots?” she asks.
I laugh. “I traded my car for them, if you can believe it. Before the hunt.”
Feels so long ago. What’s it been? A couple weeks?
“Nice. Hey, people trade stuff,” Lila says, like she read my mind. “You want a lamp?”
“I’m not trading my boots. Sorry.”
“I didn’t ask you to. I have a lamp. Battery-powered. Old display one from a shoe store. I don’t need it anymore.”
“Why?”
She shrugs.
I don’t ask what that means.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I’d like a lamp.”
“Meet me after,” she says.
Something about the way she says it tells me not to ask more questions.
We finish eating.
Then I feel it. That shift in the air again. The awareness.
I don’t look far. All three of them are near the center of the food court.
Armen leaning against one of the old counters, arms crossed, slightly lowered, talking low to Sting.
Rogue perched on the edge of a table, mask on, boot resting on a chair rung.
They look like they own the place. People move around them instead of through them.
My pulse kicks up.
I hesitate. Then remind myself I’m not going to chase. So I walk. Not straight at them. Toward the exit path that passes close enough to hear.
Rogue’s eyes catch mine first. Amusement sparks there instantly.
Sting notices next. His body shifts subtly, attention locking in.
Armen’s gaze follows.
I keep walking.
“Vi,” Rogue calls casually.
I turn slowly. “Yes?”
“Eat good?”
“About as good as mystery stew gets.”
Rogue chuckles.
Armen studies my face. “What do you want?” Straight to it.
“I had another question,” I say.
Sting shakes his head. “You’re stubborn.”
“I just want to know if there’s anything you heard that didn’t make the news.”
“Drop it,” Armen says flatly.
“I’m just asking.”
“And we’re answering,” Sting replies. “Not our problem.”
“That easy for you?”
“Yes.”
Rogue tilts his head. “You’re pushing again.”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re gonna get yourself hurt.”
“Funny,” I say. “You all seem real concerned about that.”
Sting steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I feel his heat. “This isn’t about concern,” he says. “This is about you not knowing where the lines are.”
“Then draw them.”
“You don’t get to keep pulling at things outside your place.”
“There it is,” I snap. “My place.”
“Yes,” he says. “Your place.”
Anger flares hot. “You decide my place,” I say. “You decide my future. And now you get to decide what I’m allowed to ask about my own father?”
Rogue’s amusement fades.
“That’s enough,” Sting says.
“Or what?” I challenge.
The food court is loud. People talking. Laughing. But I feel like everything narrows around us.
Sting grabs my arm. Firm. Not painful. But final.
He pulls me sideways into one of the narrow service passageways that cut between storefronts.
The noise drops instantly. Concrete walls close in.
Lights buzz overhead. I barely have time to breathe before he presses me back against the wall.
Hard. His body brackets mine. One hand planted beside my head. The other gripping my hip.
“Don’t do that,” he growls.
“Do what?” I snap.
“Push us in public.”
“Why not? Afraid someone will see?” I taunt.
“Afraid someone will think you’re something you’re not ready to be.”
Heat slams through me. Before I can respond, he slips his mask up and his mouth crashes down on mine. Not gentle. Not slow. Hungry. Claiming.
My breath leaves me in a sharp gasp. For half a second, I resist. Then my hands grab his shirt to pull him closer. The kiss deepens.
His grip tightens at my hip, my body fitting hard against his. I feel every line of him. Every inch.
Someone clears their throat.
I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.
Rogue’s voice drifts in from the corridor entrance. “Told you she liked attention.”
Sting doesn’t stop kissing me.
Armen’s footsteps approach slowly.
“Sting,” he says warningly. Sting finally pulls back just enough for breath. His eyes are dark. Dangerous.
“You keep pushing,” he murmurs against my mouth. “And this is what you get.”
My chest heaves. “You’re distracting me.”
“Yes,” he says. “On purpose.”
Rogue chuckles.
Armen’s gaze burns into me. “You don’t get answers by poking lions.”
“Then what do I get?” I whisper.
Sting leans in again, lips brushing my temple. “You get us.”
My pulse goes wild. Anger and want twist together so tight, I can’t tell which is stronger.
“This isn’t over,” I breathe.
“No,” Armen agrees. “But you’re done asking.”
Sting presses into my hip, possessive. “For now.”
I swallow hard. The corridor feels too small. Too hot. “Fine,” I say. “But you’re not scaring me off.”
Rogue grins with his eyes. “Good.”
Sting kisses me once more, quick, rough, enough to leave my lips tingling, then steps back.
People could walk by any second. And I don’t care nearly enough. I straighten my shirt, pulse racing. I turn and walk away before my knees give out.
Frustrated. Flushed. Burning.