Sting glances down at me once, his gaze assessing, but he doesn’t stop. “Almost there,” he says.
I don’t ask where “there” is. I just follow.
Because right now, with his arm around me and the weight of all those stares still prickling at my back, I don’t have anywhere else to go.
33
VI
The door closes behind us.
The sound echoes in the small space, bouncing once off the walls before settling into silence. The room is bare, a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, a narrow bench along one wall. It’s cleaner than the corridors outside, the concrete floor swept, the air less heavy with dust and grime.
A single overhead fixture casts harsh light across everything.
My wrist is still in Sting’s grip, even after he’s removed my restraints. His other hand is still at my back. I can feel the warmth of him behind me, solid and close, my breath coming faster now that we’ve stopped.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then his hand slides from my lower back to my waist, fingers settling firm at my hips.
I suck in a breath before I can stop myself. “You can let go of me, now.”
“Not yet.”
I twist my wrist, testing his hold. It doesn’t budge.
“You dragged me all the way in here,” I snap. “Now, you’re going to tell me why.”
Sting steps closer. So close my back brushes his chest. His hand at my waist tightens, pressing lightly into my side. “You wanted answers,” he says near my ear. “This is where you start getting them.”
“This feels more like being trapped.”
“You’re not trapped,” he replies. “You’re protected.”
“That word again.”
He presses once more against my ribs. “You keep fighting it,” he murmurs. “But your body already knows the difference.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know what my body knows.”
He sighs, turning me until I’m facing him, his hands never leaving my waist.
Up close, the half-skeleton mask is even more unsettling, the bone-white jaw fixed and expressionless while his eyes search my face openly. Dark eyes. Intent. It makes me feel unbalanced, seeing only half of someone’s face, especially when I’m trying to read them.
I supposed that’s what it’s intended to do.
“You’re not scared,” he says.
“Should I be? Would that be more fun for you?”
“You’re not,” he repeats, ignoring my deflection. “You’re angry. Curious. Wired.”
I swallow. He’s not wrong, and that somehow makes it worse. “Don’t bother trying to read me.”
“I will,” he says. “That’s why I brought you here.”
“Like a prize?”
“Like someone who doesn’t belong in corners.” His hands shift slightly at my waist. “Like someone who’ll get eaten alive if she’s not careful.”
