She understood, though.
She kept glancing up at the mirror while the others signed. Not fear. Calculation. Like she knew exactly what that glass was for.
When it was her turn, she didn’t rush.
She signed the contract cleanly, slid the pen back into place, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a tube of lipstick. Red. Too deliberate to be nervous. She stepped closer to the glass and applied it carefully, watching herself—and us—through the reflection.
No smile. No theatrics. Just a quiet acknowledgment.
I remember thinking:Fucking hot.
I also remember Sting laughing under his breath and Rogue going still beside me.I remember wanting to wipe that red off her mouth with my thumb just to see if she’d bite me.
That’s when she was marked. Not officially. Not out loud. I looked at the Rotters gathered around us and without a word, they knew she was ours.
From where I watch her, I also track the other groups with a glance. The president-mask idiots are out of play, licking their wounds near the loading docks. The bone-mask pair fans out wrong, leaving their backs open. Another trio closes fast from the west wing, eager and sloppy.
Dumbasses.
I tap twice against the railing, sharp and deliberate.
Sting pauses, then backs off with a curse I don’t botherlistening to. The west-wing group slows when Rogue’s shadow cuts across their path. Not a block. A suggestion to stay the fuck back.
The Hunt shifts.
She doesn’t know it yet, but the field just narrowed.
I move again, dropping down to her level now, boots quiet against the tile. The Rot absorbs sound when it wants to. I stay behind her, not close enough to touch, not far enough to lose the thread.
Her shoulders tense. She knows I’m nearer.
Good.
I don’t take her when I can. I let her pass another junction. Let her make another choice. Let her burn a little more energy. She needs to understand something before this ends. She isn’t winning, so far, by accident. She’s beingallowedto last.
That distinction matters.
I signal once more—low, subtle. A ripple through the territory. Routes shift. Sightlines close. The other hunters adjust without question. Competition sharpens, quiet and controlled. Stakes rise.
If I take her now, someone may challenge it. Claim she crossed into their space. Demand proof she’s worth the trouble.
I don’t feel like explaining myself yet. So I wait.
She cuts into a narrower corridor, one that funnels into a service bay with no clean exits. I let my steps sound this time. Her spine stiffens. She doesn’t turn. She speeds up.
I close the distance. Not rushing. Not lunging. Justenough that she knows. Just enough that the choice ahead of her stops being theoretical.
For now, she keeps moving.
For now, I let her. I could end it here. Only I don’t. I need to know what kind of woman walks into the Rotter Hunt, already willing to lose everything just to win.
7
VI
I don’t move.
Not because I’m tired. Because forward is what they expect.
