The words land like ice water. I sit up straighter, ignoring the pain shooting through my knee.
“What? Are you kidding?”
“A few days ago,” he says evenly. “Someone showed up at the perimeter. Asking questions. Trying to find out if anyone had seen you.”
My heart pounds. “Who?”
“We didn’t get a name.”
“What did they look like?”
His mouth tightens beneath the mask. “We didn’t get that close.”
“Then how do you know they were looking forme?”
“Because,” he says, “they knew your name. And they knew you entered the Hunt.”
My breath catches. “What did you do?”
“We told them to leave.”
“And did they?”
Sting’s gaze hardens. “For now.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
“If they come back,” he says slowly, “it won’t just be their life at risk. It’ll be yours too.”
“Why mine?”
“Because the Rot doesn’t tolerate breaches,” he replies. “And if someone from outside keeps pushing, we’ll have to assume you’re the reason.”
The confusion makes my head spin. “I didn’t ask anyone to come here looking for me. I didn’t even tell anyone I was coming here.”
“I believe you. But people hear shit,” he says. “You know that.”
I swallow hard. “What do you want me to do?”
“Think,” he says. “Think about who might care enough to risk coming here. Who might not take no for an answer.”
I wrack my brain. “I told you, I don’t have anyone left.”
“Then think harder,” he says. “Because if they show up again, we’ll have to deal with them. And, Vi?—”
His palm is warm, rough, his fingers firm against my cheek. “You don’t want to see how we deal with threats.”
My pulse hammers against my ribs.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, brushing my cheek, a slow, deliberate touch that makes my breath hitch. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers curling into my hair. Not pulling. Just... holding.
“Who do you think it was?” he asks.
I try to focus on the question, but all I can think aboutis how close he is. How his fingers feel against my scalp. How his breath is warm against my face.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Truly.”
“Guess.”
