And still, she follows.
My knee throbs. My skin prickles with the awareness of her presence behind us, relentless and patient. And my fingers itch with the urge to throw a punch or two.
Then her voice cuts through the silence. “Enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart.”
The words are light. Almost conversational. But they land like a blade between my shoulder blades.
I stiffen instantly. “Let me at her,” I say.
Sting stops. Not abruptly. Just a smooth, controlled halt in the middle of the corridor. His hand stays firm at my back, but his body shifts slightly, angling toward the sound of her voice without fully turning.
“Walk away,” he says to her.
His voice is low. Flat. The kind of tone that doesn’t ask twice.
Silence.
I glance back again and see her standing there, maybe ten paces behind us now. She’s not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching, her arms still loose at her sides, her posture casual.
Like she’s not afraid at all.
“I’m just walking,” she says. “Same as you.”
“You’re following,” Sting replies.
“The Rot’s not that big,” she says. “Sometimes people end up in the same place.”
Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. “Especially when someone gets... noticed.”
I close my eyes and count to three, grabbing for control. I don’t need any crap from this punk bitch. I have enough problems at the moment. I open my mouth to say so, control be damned. but Sting’s hand tightens at my back, and I shut up. For now.
“Last chance,” he says to her.
The girl’s mouth curves. Not a smile. Something colder. “Or what?”
“Or you’ll find out what happens when people test me.”
“Let me at her,” I whisper.
“No.”
Her expression doesn’t change. But after a long, deliberate pause, she takes a step back. Then another.
“Fine,” she says lightly. “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”
The words are directed at me. Not Sting.
Me.
Then she turns and walks back the way she came, her footsteps fading slowly into the distance.
“Go fuck yourself, you cunty bitch,” I holler.
“Goddammit. Keep your mouth shut,” Sting hisses, his hand clamping around my upper arm. He yanks me hard enough that I stumble. Pain flares in my knee when I catch my weight.
I whisper through my teeth, half in anger, half in pain. “Why should I?”
“Because you have a lot to lose. She doesn’t. That makes you unevenly matched, no matter how badass you think you are. She’d trade her life to hurt you. Would you trade yours to hurt her?”
