Chapter 47
ARMEN
I find her in the service corridor near the old loading bay, leaning against the concrete wall with her arms crossed tight over her chest. She doesn’t look at me when I approach. Just stares at the cracked floor like she’s trying to decide whether to run or fight.
“Vi,” I say.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like what just happened was for my protection.”
I stop a few feet away. Close enough to reach her. Far enough to give her space. “It was.”
“It was a pissing contest,” she snaps, finally lifting her eyes to mine. “You and Sting and Rogue standing there like I’m some fucking trophy you won.”
“You’re not a trophy.”
“Then what am I?” Her voice cracks on the last word. “Because from where I’m standing, I’m something people fight over. Something people want to circulate.” She spits the word like it’s poison.
I take a step closer. “You’re someone we’re keeping safe.”
“By claiming me in front of everyone?” Her laugh is bitter. “By making sure the whole Rot knows I belong to you?”
“Would you rather be subject to the whims of losers like those guys?”
The words hang in the air between us.
“The point,” I say, “is that if we don’t make it clear you’re ours, someone else will try to make you theirs. And they won’t be gentle about it.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it again. Her shoulders sag. Her breathing slows, the tension bleeding out of her.
I slide one hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, fingers curling into her hair. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere no one else goes.”
Her pulse jumps under my palm. “The secret room?”
“No. Somewhere better.”
The service stairwell is narrow and steep, concrete steps worn smooth by years of shuffling feet. I lead her up without a word, my hand at the small of her back, firm enough to guide, light enough she could pull away if she wanted.
She doesn’t.
At the top landing, I pull the black strip of cloth from my pocket. “Turn around.”
Vi hesitates, eyes searching mine in the dim emergency light. Then she does.
I tie the blindfold carefully, not tight, just enough to block sight. Her breathing quickens when the fabric settles over her eyes.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because no one finds this place unless we bring them.”
I open the heavy door. Cold air rushes out, carrying dust and faint sunlight. I guide her forward, one step at a time, until we’re inside. The door closes behind us with a dull thud.
I untie the blindfold. She blinks against the sudden golden light.
The Skylight Room is exactly as it always is, something forgotten turned sanctuary.
Dusty concrete floor swept clean. Old metal shelving pushed against the walls, holding nothing now but shadows and the occasional crate.
But above it all, the massive skylight stretches across most of the ceiling, clouded glass, cracked in places, letting soft outdoor light pour down in wide, lazy beams. A few thick wool blankets are layered in the center under the widest patch of sky.
A single lantern sits on a low wooden crate, flame low and steady.
Vi turns in a slow circle, taking it in. Her fingers brush a shelf, come away dusted. She looks up at the glass, then back at me.
“This is... yours?”
“Ours,” I correct. “The three of us. No one else comes here. Ever.”
She exhales. “Sacred ground.”
“Something like that.”
She walks to the center of the room, directly under the widest beam of light. She stops, arms crossed, facing me. “Why bring me here?”
“Because you need to understand something.”
“What?”
I step closer. “You’re not just protected. You’re chosen.”
“I guess I know what that word means now.”
“Do you?”
She meets my gaze. “It means I’m yours. All three of you. Whether I want to be or not.”
“It means,” I say, “that we’re not letting you go.”
Then movement behind me. The door opens again.
Sting steps in first, coat already off. Rogue follows, quieter, eyes bright with that dangerous amusement.
Vi’s breath catches. She looks between all three of us, pulse visible in her throat.
“This is what being chosen looks like,” Sting says, stopping beside me. “Access. Inclusion.”
Rogue moves to her other side. “Protection that comes with a price.”
“And what’s the price?” Vi asks, voice steady despite the tremor I can see running through her.
I step closer until there’s barely any space between us. “You stop fighting what you want.”
Her eyes flash. “And what do I want?”
“This,” I say simply.
Then I reach up slowly, giving her time to pull away, and remove my mask.
The bone-white half skull comes off in one smooth motion.
Vi’s breath catches. She’s seen me without my mask before, but I’ve never really given her the time to study me.
I watch her take me in: the bald head, smooth and deliberate. The heavy blackwork tattoo crawling up my neck from beneath my collar, dark geometric patterns no one can decipher. Hard angles. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth set in a line that doesn’t soften even now.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Armen,” she whispers.
Sting’s mask hits the floor next. She’s seen him, too, but looks at him like she hasn’t. Short-cropped hair, neat and controlled. His face is leaner, more precise, every feature measured. A small, clean tattoo peeks from his wrist. He doesn’t smile. Just watches her with dark, unblinking eyes.
Rogue’s mask comes off last and his messy curls spill out, dark, unruly, refusing discipline. His face is sharper and young, with patchwork tattoos climbing his collarbone. He grins. Wide and wicked.
“Surprise,” he says.
Vi stares at us, all three of us, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You’re...” She trails off.
“Real,” Rogue finishes. “Not just masks and hands in the dark.”
Sting steps closer. “You’ve seen us before.”
“But I never realized how beautiful you are,” she breathes, looking between us, taking us in.
Sting snorts and Rogue looks down at his shoes. I don’t break her gaze.
She opens her mouth to say more, then stops.
Because we all see it. The way her thighs press together.
The way her breathing quickens. The flush creeping up her neck.
She’s been wound tight since this morning.
Since Rogue interrupted her. Since we left her aching and desperate with no relief.
And she’s still not allowed to touch herself.
I step in close, hands finding her waist. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
She glares at me. “I can’t.” Her jaw tightens. “I want it.”
That’s all it takes.