He’s sitting in the chair nearest the door, elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. The posture is relaxed but the stillness isn’t. He hasn’t looked at me directly since I started speaking, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere between the table and the floor.
When I finish, no one speaks. Armen looks at Sting. Rogue looks at Sting. I look at Sting. Everyone’s looking at Sting.
He lifts his head. “No.” One word. Clean and final.
My heart doesn’t just drop, my whole body does. If I weren’t sitting in a chair, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep standing. He can’t just say no. He can’t just deny me my father’s legacy. It’s not fair. I deserve answers.
But I suppose nothing about the Rot is fair. Fair is from the before times. It doesn’t exist here and now.
“The territory is dangerous,” he says. “And while the evidence is incomplete, even if we recover more documents, even if they say exactly what you want them to say, it won’t matter. People have already decided what your father was. The town of Rothwell decided. The people who lived through what happened to this city decided. A stack of papers doesn’t undo that. It doesn’t rewrite the version of history that everyone here has built their lives around.”
Finally looking at me, he holds my gaze. His words are slow and precise because he wants to make sure I listen and understand. His walls are back up, the armor back on, and every trace of the man who just held me has been stored away.
“So, you’re saying it’s all pointless, regardless of what we find?” I ask, trying to control my voice. I’m getting pissed again, I can’t deny it. “People have decided who my father was. It’s a done deal, no further discussion needed. Is that what you are saying?”
He says nothing and the quiet in the room drags. Long enough for Armen’s gaze to move between us, like he knows something I don’t, and long enough for Rogue to turn in his chair. Long enough for the hope I have to deflate a little. Not entirely, but enough.
20
VI
I leavethe Skylight Room before I say something I can’t take back.
The corridor is empty, thank God. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be the woman who just begged three men for help and got shut down.
I’m shaking. Not crying, I’m done with crying, at least I hope I am. This is rage. The clean, white-hot kind that makes your hands ball into fists and your vision narrow. The kind that makes you want to tear someone apart with your hands.
Armen finds me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there. Could be a minute, could be five. He comes around the corner, unhurried, like he’s just walking somewhere. But he’s not. He came looking for me. I can tell by the way his gaze finds mine and holds it.
“Don’t tell me he’s right, Armen. Don’t tell me to give it time. Don’t manage me.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
He stops in front of me, closer than he usually stands. His eyes move across my face, reading whatever’s there. He sees the rage. The hurt. The want that’s been sitting underneath everything since Sting held me in this same corridor an hour ago and then walked away.
“What do you need?” he asks.
I grab the front of his shirt, pull him to me, and kiss him hard enough to split my lip on his teeth.
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on me instantly. One on the back of my neck, one gripping my hip, pulling me flush against him. I’m pouring every ounce of frustration from the Skylight Room into his mouth.
I pull back, breathing hard. “Your room?” I ask.
He doesn’t ask questions, just takes my hand and walks. Fast.
I’m already pulling my shirt off. He watches. Doesn’t help. Just stands there with those calm dark eyes tracking every movement while I strip down to nothing in the middle of his room.
“Your turn,” I say.
He pulls his shirt over his head, undoes his belt, and steps out of everything. He’s hard already. Has been since the corridor, probably. Armen doesn’t advertise but his body doesn’t lie.
I push him toward the bed and he lets me. He sits on the edge. I climb on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, and I take his cock in my hand, guiding him inside me without any buildup. There’s no foreplay and no patience. I’m too angry for that crap.
He makes a low growl when I sink down on him. His hands grip my hips, holding me there for a second, letting me adjust, his eyes locked on mine.
“You sure about this?” he asks. Even now. Even with his cock inside me and my nails digging into his shoulders.
