Chapter 10
VI
The meeting should feel over once Fischer leaves. It doesn't.
The room still feels contaminated somehow, like he left something rotten behind in the air. Maybe that's dramatic. I don't care. The man sat across from me for months pretending to be Tommy the harmless supply guy while helping destroy my city from the inside out. I feel entitled to a little drama.
Nobody moves immediately.
Armen stays at the head of the table, calm and unreadable. Rogue leans back in his chair with his boot hooked on the lower rung, arms folded. Sting closes the folder in front of him, tapping all the papers into a perfect, tidy pile.
Mara hovers near the wall beside Kade.
Kade.
I take a proper look at him for the first time.
Tall, dark-haired, broad through the shoulders, wearing an old leather jacket that looks expensive enough to have belonged to another life before ending up in the Rot.
He doesn't speak unless spoken to, but somehow changes the energy of the room anyway, probably because it's been our little group for so long that a new person feels like an extra arm. An unnecessary arm.
But what do I know.
More importantly, Mara keeps glancing at him when she thinks nobody's watching.
I notice. Rogue notices too, because his mouth twitches when he catches me catching her.
"What if he tries to leave?" I ask. "Fischer."
Armen's eyes move to me. "He won't. He's not stupid."
"The man in the corridor wasn't freelance," Kade says. “He wasn’t here on his own.” His voice is lower than I expected, and pretty authoritative for someone brand new to the room. "Even if we neutralize this one, there'll be others."
Rogue nods. "Agreed. Fischer knows that better than any of us."
I look around the table and realize nobody here seems surprised that the people above Fischer would send someone. Like they always knew this was coming. Maybe I did too. The realization sends cold fingers down my spine.
Armen stands, which signals the meeting is actually, finally over.
"Get some rest," he says to the room.
One by one, they filter out. Rogue goes with that unhurried ease of his, catching my eye on the way past without breaking stride.
Sting leaves quietly, the way Sting does everything.
Mara squeezes my shoulder as she passes, Kade one step behind her, and then the door clicks shut and the room is just me and Armen.
I'm gathering papers when his hand closes over my untouched coffee cup.
"You never drank this."
I look up. The room does feel smaller with just the two of us in it.
"Have you been sleeping?" he asks.
I laugh. Not because it's funny but because of course this is the first thing Armen asks. So practical. But it's also nice to be looked after, which is something I didn't expect to find in this place and still haven't really gotten used to.
"I'm getting by," I say.
"That wasn't the question."
He sets the coffee down beside me and leans back against the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest. God, he's beautiful.
Not in any polished, obvious way. Armen looks dangerous even standing still.
Dark eyes. Strong hands. Those tattoos. A permanent sense of control sitting just beneath the surface.
Most people in the Rot are careful around Armen. I understand why.
"I slept a little," I say finally.
"You look exhausted."
"You look exhausting."
That earns me the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth, like a tiny victory.
"You keep replaying the word," he says. "The infamous ‘is’."
I look down at the papers.
Such a stupid little word to destroy my sanity. And yet here I am.
"He knows something about my father," I say, shrugging. "What would you do if you were me?"
Armen pushes away from the table and stops directly in front of me, close enough that my knees brush his thigh when I squirm in my chair. Heat blasts through me, which, at the moment, annoys the shit out of me.
"You buried your father already," he says.
The words hit hard enough that my throat tightens. "Yup. Sure did."
"And now someone handed you doubt."
And there we have it. Not hope but doubt. Which is somehow more painful.
His hand lifts to my face, large fingers sliding along my jaw. The contact wrecks me.
"I need you focused, Vi."
"I am focused. Sort of."
"No." His thumb strokes once beneath my cheekbone. "You're running on adrenaline and hope."
Rude. Accurate. Whatever.
I should pull away. Instead, I lean into his hand, desperate for reassurance.
His eyes darken instantly. The shift is small but unmistakable, that charged feeling that torments us both to the point of snapping. My pulse jumps. He notices. His gaze drops to my mouth before coming back to my eyes.
"Why do you always do that?" I murmur.
"Do what?"
"Torment me. And act like you have everything under control."
"I usually do," he says. "Usually."
There's something underneath it. Something he keeps locked down. The honesty of it steals the air from my lungs.
My fingers curl around the front of his shirt before I've decided to touch him.
"Vi."
Low warning. Too late.
I tug him closer and his restraint snaps.
Our kiss hits hard enough to make me gasp.
One hand slides into my hair while the other grips my waist and pulls me up out of the chair, his mouth moving over mine with rough hunger.
I make a small helpless sound against his mouth, and he swears softly before kissing me deeper.
He walks me backward until my hips meet the edge of the table. Papers slide to the floor. His mouth moves to my throat, slow and deliberate, and every nerve ending I have is fully awake.
His hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against my bare skin, sliding lower, and I finally stop thinking about Fischer, which I suspect was at least partly the point. Armen’s fingers find me and I react, my hands gripping his shoulders, my head falling back.
"There she is," he says quietly.
Cocky bastard.
I pull him back to my mouth before he can get any more smug about it. That turns into another kiss. And another. And I'm half sitting on the edge of the table with Armen between my knees, his hands on me, his mouth erasing every thought in my head except for those about him.
He gets my jeans open, his fingers diving into my wetness, and there goes my brain.
"Armen—"
"Quiet," he growls.
I comply. His fingers work me leisurely and deliberately, and he watches my face, tagging my reaction.
"Look at me," he says.
I didn't realize I'd closed my eyes. I open them.
He holds my gaze while his fingers move, and I am not going to survive this man. Which is fine, because I am not sure I want to, anyway.
He strokes me slowly at first, noticing what makes me catch my breath, what makes my hips roll toward him.
When he finds the right rhythm, I make a noise I don't intend to and his eyes darken.
He does it again. And again. Two fingers pushing inside me while his thumb works my clit in slow circles, my grip on the table tightening because I need something to hold onto or I'm going to slide right off.
His breath is coming harder. “Beautiful… you’re so fucking beautiful,” he mutters.
"Armen, please—"
He doesn't speed up. He presses deeper and crooks his fingers. I gasp so hard, it sounds like a sob, my thighs clamping around his hand, demanding more.
"Please," I beg like the pitiful thing I’ve been reduced to.
"I heard you," he says, unhurried. Teasing fucker.
He works me like this until I'm shaking, until I'm grinding against his hand, chasing the edge he keeps dangling just out of reach. Then he curls his fingers just so and his thumb presses hard.
Then he pulls me off the table and turns me, one hand flat between my shoulder blades, pushing me forward and down. His mouth finds the back of my neck while his hands deal with what remains of our clothing, and the cold edge of the table is a shock against my front.
"Still with me?" he asks.
"Not sure," I manage.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh. Then he pushes inside my aching pussy and I stop being funny about it. He doesn’t give me a second to adjust and while his initial thrusts burn, I also like it and only want more.
He sets a pace that’s measured and relentless. He knows where he's going and he takes his time getting there. Every time I get close, he pulls back slightly, just enough to remind me who’s boss.
The side of my face is flat against the table where we’d just had our meeting. "Armen," I whine.
"What?” he grunts, pulling all the way out and then driving his cock back in.
"I need—"
"I know what you need."
"Then—"
"When I say."
God. Damn. Him.
I try to push back against him to change the pace and his hand comes down firm on my neck, holding me where he wants me.
"Good girl," he says quietly, which should not work as well as it does.
It absolutely works.
When he finally gives me what I've been asking for, I raise my ass as best I can and his hand reaches for my clit. I explode so hard, I have to bite down on my own arm to keep the noise down.
On the other hand, this is the Rot. Who gives a shit what people hear or think?
His explosion follows mine by moments. He does it quietly, with a series of grunts, holding the back of my neck so tight, I figure I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
Ask me if I care. He’s still hard inside me and I’m already thinking what I wouldn’t give to be fucked like this again, right now.
For a minute, we stay like that. His forehead drops to the back of my neck. My hands are flat on the table. The room is the same as it was an hour ago except totally different.
He straightens first. Fixes himself by tucking his wet cock back in his jeans. Not that I can see, my face still smashed against the table and all. I just hear his zipper, followed by his belt buckle clanging.
I finally push myself up and turn around to lean back against the table. I don’t trust my legs, at least not yet. I’m naked from the waist down, cum dripping out of me, and I’m too weak to even pull my legs together like a goddamn lady.
Armen looks at me for a long moment. His expression is back to controlled. Almost. There's something in his eyes that wasn't there before, something he hasn't locked back down yet, and I keep my mouth shut because I do not want to be the reason he closes it off.
He picks up the scattered papers from the floor and sets them on the table without a word.
"You need to sleep, Vi," he says.
Not tender. Not cold. Just Armen.
He leaves and I stay against the table for another minute, the room quiet around me, the papers in a neat pile. I end up using my panties to mop up a bit and I could swear, it takes all I have just to get my damn jeans and sneakers back on.
For the first time since Fischer said is, my brain goes quiet. Not because the problem disappeared but because Armen did what he always does. He gave me something solid to hold onto while everything else tilts sideways.