“Brace yourself,” he says.
I shift my weight, biting down on the inside of my cheek as the movement sends another flare of painthrough my leg. I don’t know why he can’t just let me walk.
As we start moving, I become acutely aware of how exposed I am. Being watched from a distance was one thing. Being pushed through the space, bound and seated, is another entirely.
I keep my head forward. I don’t look around. But I feel it. The movement draws attention whether I want it to or not. We pass under a flickering light. Shadows stretch and slide across the walls. Voices trail off as we move past them.
For one brief second, as Armen pauses to navigate a tight turn, I catch a glimpse down the corridor we just left.
Sting is still there. He hasn’t moved from his spot. He isn’t watching me anymore. He’s watching Armen. The look is unreadable behind the half-skeleton mask, but the stillness of it makes my stomach roil.
Armen resumes dragging the chair before I can look any longer. “Eyes forward,” he barks.
I obey.
The passage narrows, the noise dulling as we move away from the main corridor. Armen stops after a few more feet, positioning my chair against the wall, tucking it into a recessed space that’s more contained, less visible.
He steps back and assesses me like he’s checking a piece of equipment. “This is temporary,” he says.
“How temporary?” I ask.
“That depends on how the night goes.”
I swallow. “And if it goes badly?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then you won’t be here.”
That should scare me more than it does.
Armen takes up position again, standing just off to my right this time, his presence a solid line between me and the open corridor.
I sit there, wrists aching, knee throbbing, heart still racing from the movement.
Being watched was unsettling. Being repositioned? I’m pretty sure that’s worse. Because now I know, without a doubt, that I’m no longer just something someone noticed.
I’m being managed, and I have no idea what that means.
28
VI
I don’t realizeSting has followed us until he’s already there.
He’s standing at the mouth of the narrow passage, half in shadow, one shoulder resting against the wall as if he belongs there. From where I’m sitting, tucked into the recess Armen chose, I can see him clearly. The half-skeleton mask catches the light, pale against the concrete, hollowed eyes fixed on me. It’s designed to intimidate, which it does.
It also excites me. Which is not good.
Armen doesn’t turn right away. He must sense Sting the way I do, his presence and attention.
“That area’s restricted,” Armen says calmly.
Sting’s gaze flicks to him for a moment, then slides back to me. “Didn’t see a sign.”
“You saw me move her,” Armen replies. “That’s the sign.”
Sting smiles. I can’t see his mouth, but I can hear it in the slight lift of his voice. “I was curious. She looked uncomfortable.”
“I’ve got her,” Armen says.
