Page 106 of Immune

She only points the bloody knife at him and warns, “Keep being optimistic. See what happens.”

He presses his lips together, but the smile lingers in his eyes. It should bother me, the way he smiles at her, but it doesn’t. Not in the way I expected. My Alpha dislikes any attention on her, and that part is simple to explain. It’s old biology, old violence. The part that sees another Alpha near an Omega and thinks he or she is a threat before it thinks it’s a person.

But I’ve seen Dakota’s face when too much attention forms a cage around her.

Ewan doesn’t cage her. He lets jokes fall at her feet like offerings she can kick away if she wants to. Xeon watches her pain without trying to own or use it. And Fletcher changes commands into information when he remembers she will bite through anything that even smells like control.

They’re learning. And I’m learning, too. Maybe a little slowly, maybe.

Her kiss still burns against my mouth, her taste lingering like it knows I’m begging for it to stay.

Dakota turns and keeps walking, and I let her.

That’s the first choice.Restraint over instinct.

Not following her would be impossible right now. Not with Vector in the district, not with the rain stripping hermasking, and not with her injuries worsening under her stubborn silence. But following close enough to soothe the thing inside me would be for me, not for her.

So I keep the distance, and it costs me more than I thought it would.

We reach the staff stairwell at the back of the market, finding the door wedged partly open by a fallen shelf. Beyond it, the stairs climb into damp concrete darkness. Dakota crouches to assess the threshold, and her hair slips from under the back of her hat.

White-blonde. Long, even braided and tucked under layers. A pale flash against black tactical fabric and dark concrete. I’ve seen only a flash of it before, enough for me to consider it was a trick of the light, but something about seeing her hair clearly sucker-punches me in the chest.

My hand tightens around the hilt of my knife, and not because of her hair, but because of the way Xeon’s gaze moves to it. It’s only for a second, careful and controlled, then he looks away. He saw, but he doesn’t say anything.

Good.

Dakota reaches for the shelf with her injured arm and pain flashes across her face before she can bury it. I’m moving before I can even stop myself. I manage only a step before her head snaps up and her knife is pointed at me.

Everyone stills, and I stop instantly, hands loose at my sides.

“Don’t,” she says quietly, but it lands louder than a shout ever could.

My Alpha slams against my ribs violently.

She’s hurt.

Help.

Move.

Take the shelf.

Open the door.

Carry her if she can’t walk.

No.

I look at the shelf instead of her face, muttering, “It’s heavy.”

“Yes, I did notice,” she says. “Your contribution to the investigation has been noted.”

I ignore her sarcasm and offer, “I can move it.”

“Well, shit, that’s nice. I can move it, too,” she volleys.

“Your arm is hurt,” I point out, and her eyes go flat so quickly that I instantly know it was the wrong thing to say. It was too direct, too much proof that I’ve been watching her.