Sting stares me down until the girl is gone, and when he finally moves, his hand shifts from my arm back to my waist, pulling me closer against his side. “Keep moving,” he says.
The anger leaves my legs shaky, but I force them tokeep moving. “So. I’m brand-new here and already have a problem,” I laugh.
“Yes.”
“You said you’d handle it. But I can take care of myself. Just sayin’.”
“Let me handle it.”
“When?”
His gaze flicks down to me briefly. “When she pushes too far.”
“And if she does something before that?” I press. “I’ll teach her a lesson. I’m telling you that right now.”
“No, you will not, Vi.”
The certainty in his voice should be reassuring. But all I can think about is the way she looked at me. The cold calculation in her eyes. The way she saidsweetheartlike it was poison dripping off her tongue.
“She knows I’m with you,” I say. “And she still doesn’t care about consequences.”
“She cares,” Sting replies. “She just thinks she can get away with it.”
“Can she?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. Darker. “Not for long.”
“Or she thinks I’m not worth the protection,” I mutter.
His arm tightens around me. “She’s wrong.”
Finally, we reach another door. Larger than the first, the metal warmer to the touch like it’s been opened recently.
Sting pushes it open and guides me inside.
The room beyond is bigger than the last one. A low cot against one wall. A narrow table with a lamp bolted to it.A couple of crates stacked neatly in the corner. The air is warmer here, heavy with the faint smell of metal and housecleaning products.
It feels... lived in. Not quite comfortable but better than the last closet I was in.
Sting closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes softly in the space.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then his hand slides from my waist, and he steps back slightly, giving me space to breathe. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the cot.
I hesitate, then lower myself slowly onto the edge of the mattress. It dips beneath my weight, the springs creaking in protest.
Sting remains standing in front of me, his gaze traveling over my face—assessing, calculating.
“She’s going to keep coming, you know,” I say.
“Yup.”
“And you’re just going to let her?”
“I’m going to let her think I’m letting her,” he replies. “Until she crosses the line.”
“What line?”
