Chapter 42
VI
Sting doesn’t let me get far.
I make it maybe halfway down the corridor before his hand wraps around my wrist again, firm and unyielding, stopping me mid-step. The contact sends a jolt straight up my arm and into my chest.
“Not done,” he says.
I turn sharply. “We are.”
His eyes say otherwise.
Behind him, Armen and Rogue close in, not crowding me but boxing the moment in. The noise of the food court fades as people move past the corridor entrance, oblivious to what’s about to happen just a few feet away.
Sting studies my face like he’s weighing something. “You keep poking things that bite,” he says.
“Someone has to,” I shoot back, sounding braver than I am.
Jesus. I need to shut my damn mouth.
I can barely see Rogue smiling behind the half-skeleton mask. “Told you she’d be trouble. Let’s go.”
“She hasn’t earned it,” Armen says, low and firm.
My gaze snaps to him. “Earned what?”
Sting doesn’t answer right away. His grip tightens just slightly on my wrist, not painful but unmistakably controlling. “She needs to see,” he says finally.
“No,” Armen says.
“She’s new.”
“And permanent,” Rogue adds lightly.
Sting’s eyes never leave mine. “I got a feeling about her.”
Rogue snorts. “You always say that right before shit goes sideways.”
“And when have I been wrong?” Sting counters.
I can feel the tension between them, some unspoken hierarchy shifting and testing.
Armen exhales sharply. “You bring her in and she’s not just a Runt anymore.”
“That’s the point,” Sting replies.
My pulse kicks harder. “Hello,” I say, looking between the three of them as they talk about me. “I’m right here. And bring me where, anyway?”
They ignore me.
Sting meets Armen’s stare head-on. “Trust me, man.”
Armen holds his gaze for a long moment, then curses under his breath.
“Fine,” he says. “But if this blows back on us—”
“It won’t,” Sting cuts in.
Rogue chuckles. “This is either genius or the dumbest thing you’ve done.”
“Move,” Sting says.
He doesn’t wait for me to argue. He pulls me with him.
We don’t go toward the busy corridors. Instead, he veers into a narrow service passage tucked between two old storefronts. The light shifts immediately, dimmer, harsher, buzzing fluorescent strips overhead. The air smells like mold.
The mall feels different back here. Older. Hidden. We pass closed utility doors, faded labels barely readable. One door is blocked by stacked crates, another by a rusted cart. Sting pushes through a narrow gap I wouldn’t have noticed was there at all.
Behind it is another corridor. Then another.
Who the hell designs these places?
Each turn pulls us farther from the Rot I know and into something quieter, more secretive. My heart pounds as realization sets in. This isn’t part of the public Rot. This is something else.
“How many people know about this?” I ask.
“Not many,” Rogue replies from behind me.
“Most don’t need to.”
Armen stays close at my side, eyes scanning every corner like instinct.
Sting finally stops in front of what looks like a sealed storefront gate, half lowered and tagged with old graffiti. A crooked sign still hangs above it—CLOSED FOR RENOVATION—so faded it’s almost a joke.
He reaches behind one of the mannequins slumped inside the darkened display. There’s a click. The gate slides up just enough for us to slip through. Inside, the space is nothing like the abandoned shop it looks like from the mall.
The floor has been cleared. Couches scavenged from who knows where line one wall. Crates stacked into makeshift tables. Low lanterns and string lights cast warm, flickering light across graffiti-covered concrete. Rot symbols mark the walls in thick paint.
It smells like something faintly sweet. It feels alive. Illegal. Private.
“This is…” I trail off.
“Our spot,” Rogue says. “One of them.”
My chest tightens. “You live here?”
“We plan here,” Armen says. “Drink here. Settle things here.”
“And fuck here,” Rogue adds casually.
Heat rushes straight to my face. And other places.
Sting turns to me slowly. “No one else gets in,” he says. “You do because we say you do.”
I swallow. “And if I say no?”
His eyes darken. “You won’t.”
Something about the certainty in his voice makes my pulse jump. “This is what being chosen looks like. Access. Inclusion,” he adds
Suddenly, I’m very aware that we’re alone. Three men and me in a hidden lair inside a broken mall.
Sting steps closer. “So,” he says. “You still mad?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Before I can ask why, his hands come to my hips and he lifts me easily, setting me back against one of the crate tables. The wood is cool under my palms as I brace myself.
“You like pushing,” he says, stepping in between my knees.
“I like answers.”
“What you really like,” he replies, “is control.”
My breath catches as his body presses closer.
Rogue moves in behind me, one hand settling at my thigh, his fingers brushing slow and deliberate along my skin.
Armen stands in front of me now too, gaze burning, intense and focused. “You walk into lions’ dens,” he says. “You challenge men who don’t play nice.”
“And you still want me,” I shoot back.
“Yeah,” he says without hesitation.
“Bad idea,” Rogue’s murmurs in my ear. His lips touch me and I realize his mask is gone.
“Very,” Sting agrees.
Their hands are everywhere now, steadying, gripping, sliding with intent. Not gentle. Not slow. Possessive and heated, like they’ve been holding back too long.
Sting’s mouth crashes into mine again, deeper this time, rougher, his hands anchoring me in place as Rogue’s fingers trace up my thigh and Armen’s hand slides to my waist.
I gasp into the kiss, heat flooding through me. This isn’t careful. This is hunger. Starvation hunger.
I clutch Sting’s shirt, pulling him closer as Rogue’s breath ghosts my neck and Armen presses his fingers firmly into my hip bone.
“You brought her here to test her,” Rogue mutters.
“Yeah,” Sting replies against my mouth.
“And?” Armen asks.
“And I’m keeping her. We’re keeping her.”
The words hit like fire. My heart pounds. Their touches intensify, the danger of the hidden space mixing with the thrill of being wanted so fiercely, so suddenly.
This is what the Rot is. Not just violence. Power. Connection. Ownership.
Sting breaks the kiss long enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild. “Still wanna keep poking at things?” he asks.
I’m breathless. Burning. “Yeah,” I murmur.
Rogue laughs softly. “She’s perfect.”
Armen leans in close, his mask now gone. His voice is low and dangerous. “You don’t get brought here and walk away untouched.”
“Good,” I say.
Their hands tighten. And the world narrows to heat, tension, and the knowledge that whatever line we just crossed…
There’s no going back.