Armen doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s already turned back to me.
The guards drag her away, her glare burning into me as she goes.
I meet it without blinking.
Armen’s attention settles fully on me now.
21
VI
The masked Rotterscluster in their own groups farther down the mall, posturing, loud in the way insecure men get when they think being seen as equals is important. The old dick-measuring contest.
They eye Armen and his guys openly. Armen doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. That’s when he turns to me. The air changes immediately. Not in the dramatic way it did during the Hunt. This is quieter. Denser. Like the space narrows without moving.
“You’re not to leave this area,” he says, voice calm, even. “If you need something, you ask.”
I scoff. “Where would I go?”
He ignores me, his hand closing around my elbow. Not hard. Precise. Enough pressure to stop any movement without forcing it.
My body locks, my breath catching.
He doesn’t jerk me back. Doesn’t pull. Just holds me there, fingers firm around bone and muscle, like he’s sayingstaywithout raising his voice. And then he keeps his hand there.
That’s the part that gets me.
He continues speaking to the man beside him, some instruction about placement, about visibility, while his grip remains exactly the same. Not tightening. Not loosening.
Justthere.
I’m acutely aware of how close he’s standing now. Of the heat from his body. Of the way his thumb rests just above the inside of my elbow, where skin’s thinner. Pressure, not force. I’ve felt force. This isn’t it.
I look up at him. He doesn’t look away. Most men do when they realize they’re being studied. They either assert themselves or retreat into performance. Armen just meets my gaze.
Something in my chest shifts. Not fear. Not relief. Recognition.
I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me, but I know he’s not pretending this is neutral. He’s choosing proximity. Choosing contact. Choosing not to explain it.
Why?
His eyes flick briefly to where his hand is on me—just long enough to confirm placement—then back to my face.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Move without thinking,” he replies. “You’re injured.”
Concern, maybe. Control, definitely.
He doesn’t remove his hand until I nod once. When he does, the absence feels louder than the touch did.
I don’t like that. I also don’t like that I’m already labeling it.
The way he stands slightly angled, never square. The way his attention never fully leaves the space even while he’s focused on me. The fact that Rogue shifts position the moment Armen steps closer, tightening the perimeter without being told.
Sting notices too. I catch his grin, quick and knowing, like he’s amused by something I’m only just starting to understand.
