“When I’m ready.”
“Sting,” I call.
He pauses, glancing back.
“That girl,” I say. “The one in the work hub. The one I punched.”
His expression doesn’t change. “What about her?”
“She hates me.”
“Yes.”
“Is she going to be a problem?”
His gaze lingers on me for a long moment. “She already is,” he says. “But I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“By making sure she understands what happens if she touches what’s mine. What’s ours.”
The possessive edge in his voice sends heat crawling up my neck.
“I’m not?—”
“You are,” he interrupts. “Whether you’ve accepted it yet or not.”
Then he opens the door and steps out. The lock slides into place with a soft metallic click.
I stand there in the middle of the small room, heart pounding, skin still warm where he touched me. Outside, the Rot hums on.
Inside, everything feels like it’s shifting beneath my feet.
34
VI
Stingreturns sooner than I expected.
I’ve barely had time to doze off when I hear footsteps in the corridor outside.
The lock disengages. The door swings open. He stands in the doorway, half-skeleton mask catching the harsh overhead light, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.
“Up,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“We’re moving.”
“Already?”
“Up,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I push myself up and off the bench, wincing when my knee protests. Sting’s gaze drops to it briefly, then returns to my face.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
