Behind us, someone laughs. Not at her. At something else. The sound still makes her flinch, quick and involuntary.
I file that away.
Attraction flares, unwanted and sharp. Not because she’s soft.
It’s the way she holds herself even now, bound on concrete like an offering she never consented to be. Her hair is a mess, sweat-matted, dragged loose from whatever control she started with, but her body stays straight. Her mouth is split at one corner, blood dried dark against her skin, and she hasn’t bothered to wipe it away.
Her face isn’t begging for sympathy. It isn’t trying to charm. It’s closed. Set. Like she’s already decided what parts of herself they don’t get to touch.
That’s what gets me. The refusal.
A few women are beautiful in the Rot. Fewer are intact. Fewer still stay that way after the Hunt.
She looks like someone who understands what’s beingtaken from her, and is keeping the rest out of reach on purpose.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does, and that pisses me off. It feels like betrayal, not of my boys Rogue or Sting but of the system. Desire complicates order. Complication leads to mistakes. I’ve survived too long to like mistakes.
“You ran well,” I say instead.
Her eyes narrow. Suspicion replaces fear.
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No,” I say honestly. “It’s supposed to make you understand why you’re here.”
She exhales through her nose, a short, bitter sound. “Thought I understood that already. I read your fucking forms before I signed them.”
She’s lying. Or trying to.
No one really understands this part until they’re in it.
I stand and move closer now, slow enough that she can track every inch of it. I halt just inside her space. Not touching. Never touching unless necessary.
“You’re not being punished,” I tell her. “You’re being placed.”
Her gaze drops despite herself. To the bindings. To the floor. To the women along the wall. Understanding dawns, like an opening blossom. Not acceptance. Understanding. She’s pissed, and that’s good. Anger will keep her alive longer than fear ever will.
Somewhere deeper in the mall, a door slams. A voice calls out a name that isn’t hers. Footsteps move off, unhurried.
The Hunt continues.
She seems to realize it at the same time. Her shoulderssag, not much, just enough to show the cost of holding herself together this long. Still no tears.
Impressive.
I straighten and step back, giving her space she can’t use. It’s crueler that way.
“They’ll come for you soon,” I say.
She lifts her chin again. Stubborn to the end.
“I don’t beg,” she says.
I almost smile. “I know,” I say instead. “That’s why this won’t be easy.”
For either of us.
I turn and leave her there, not abandoned, not alone, just long enough for the Rot to do what it does best.
