Rogue keeps going because he can’t help himself. “Runts aren’t temporary,” he adds, like it’s a throwaway line. He says it lightly. Almost offhand.
But Vi goes rigid. It’s immediate. Her shoulders lock. Her chin lifts half an inch. Her eyes flash, and for the firsttime since I brought her here, she looks like she might actually lunge out of a chair with her hands tied behind it.
“What?” she says again.
Rogue blinks, like he’s surprised she heard him. Then he realizes what he just said. He turns his head toward me slowly.
“Oh.”
He does that on purpose.
Rogue huffs a laugh. “Okay. So you really didn’t tell her.”
Vi’s voice cuts in, sharp. “Not temporary?”
Rogue looks back at her. “That wasn’t for you.”
“It was said in front of me,” Vi snaps.
Rogue’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “True.”
Vi’s gaze burns. “Answer me.”
Rogue opens his mouth, maybe to deflect, maybe to joke, and then stops. “The others have been asking about her,” he says to me.
“I’m handling it.”
Sting appears out of nowhere, his gaze flicking past me to Vi, then back. “By keeping her where everyone can wonder?” His voice is flat. Not a question. A statement.
“This spot is cozy, I’ll give you that,” Rogue observes from his spot against the wall.
“It’s temporary,” I answer, though the word sounds thinner now.
Rogue’s gaze flicks to me. “Temporary is doing a lot of work down here.”
“What did you say?” Sting asks.
Rogue gives a soft whistle. “Nothing. Just—talking.”
Sting steps in. Not hurried. Not aggressive. Just certain.
He stops beside Vi’s chair, close enough that the space between them disappears. He looks down at her, eyes unreadable in the dim light, and Vi’s chin lifts as if her body reacts to his presence before she chooses to.
Her voice comes out lower than before. “He said I’m not temporary.”
Sting’s attention flicks to Rogue. “You told her that?”
Rogue’s head tilts, innocent. “I didn’t tell her anything. I said a word. She’s got ears.”
Sting makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He turns his gaze back to Vi. Then, without thinking, without hesitation, his hand comes down to her shoulder. Just rests there. Not a squeeze. Not a caress. Not reassurance. Contact. Ownership in the simplest, most brutal form:I can touch you and no one can stop me.
Vi’s breath catches. Her shoulders jerk as if she’s about to pull away, and then she remembers she’s bound to a chair and stills instead. I watch her throat move as she swallows.
Sting doesn’t remove his hand.
My ribs tighten. I tell myself it’s irritation, Sting forcing my hand, disrupting the order I’m trying to maintain. But the heat crawling up the back of my neck knows better. I say nothing, just clench my teeth to the point of pain.
Rogue’s head turns slightly toward me, like he’s watching my reaction instead of Sting’s. I force my reflection flat. He sees through it anyway.
