“When?”
“When I decide where you’re least likely to draw interest.”
“I don’t have control over that,” I say.
“You have some,” he replies. “You just don’t like using it.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You think this is me liking anything?”
“No,” he says. “I think you’re learning.”
I glance sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the corridor beyond him. I don’t see Sting. That doesn’t mean he’s gone.
“Is he still there?” I ask.
Armen doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, he keeps his voice low. “Don’t worry about him.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m not reassuring you,” he says. “I’m managing a situation.”
“And I’m what?” I ask. “The situation? Or is Sting the situation? Isn’t he part of your team?”
“You’re a variable,” he says, ignoring my question about Sting.
This settles into me slowly, unpleasant and heavy.
“I didn’t ask to be a variable,” I say.
“Not directly,” he agrees. “But you did sign up to be here.”
Someone bumps the back of my chair as they pass. It’s light, careless, but it jolts my knee enough that my vision blurs for a second. I gasp before I can stop myself.
Armen is on his feet instantly. “Hey,” he snaps, sharp enough to cut. “Watch it.”
A muttered apology follows. The footsteps retreat quickly.
Armen crouches again, this time closer, his face level with mine. “How bad?”
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“That wasn’t the question.”
I hesitate. “It hurts.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Both.”
He exhales slowly. “We’re moving.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He stands and grips the back of my chair again. This time, he doesn’t turn it. He drags it backward, guiding it away from the main corridor and toward a narrower passage off to the side.
