Page 110 of Immune

Her mouth is hidden, but I see the shape of whatever she almost says before swallowing it back. I take a slow, deep breath, even as my instincts snarl. I ignore them like it’s my only duty in life.

“Biology isn’t ownership,” I say. “Wanting is not permission, and recognition isn’t surrender.”

Dakota’s knife lowers only half an inch. Barely anything, really, but it’s enough. Then she says, “You kissed me.”

“I know,” I admit, nodding once.

“You kissed me back,” she adds.

“I know.”

“I stopped,” she says quietly.

“You stopped,” I repeat. “So I stopped.”

Her throat moves.

I lower my voice when I say, “That shouldn’t surprise you.”

“Well, it did,” she confesses, and her honesty comes out sharp enough to cut us both. I want to kill every single person who ever taught her that stopping was something she had to earn with threats and a knife. I don’t say that, of course, because that anger would be mine. She doesn’t deserve mine on top of the anger she’s already carrying with her.

So, I only nod. “Then I’ll keep proving it.”

Her eyes search my face like she’s looking for a well-hidden trap. There isn’t one. Just me standing in the rain, soaked through, hurt, tired, wanting her so badly my bones ache, and choosing not to take a single step closer.

She looks away first, but I don’t consider it a victory.

“There’s something in my pack,” she admits.

My attention sharpens so fast I grow dizzy with it, but I keep my body as still as stone. “Okay.”

I know she hates that word. I can tell, but this time she doesn’t correct me. Instead, she says, “If I give it to you, you have to give it back.”

“I promise,” I swear, meaning it with my entire chest. She could give me the cure to the virus and I’d hand it straight back to her if it meant earning her trust enough that she wouldn’t look at me like I’m one word away from fucking her over.

“You don’t show them,” she pushes.

“I won’t,” I assure her.

“And you don’t ask about it,” she adds.

My jaw tightens with that one, because that’s a harder request to follow. Not because I want to push, but because I want to know how to protect her better. But wanting doesn’t matter. Permission does.

“I won’t ask a thing,” I swear, even though everything in me begs differently.

Dakota studies me for a long moment. Then she reaches under her jacket, shifts the strap of her backpack, and pulls something from the inner pocket.

It’s a small photograph, creased and soft at the edges, with a protective clear sleeve that has grown cloudy with age. She holds it out like it’s a weapon, and maybe it is. So, with caution, I take it from her.

The photo is from before. I know it straight away. Not because the world behind them is whole, even though it is. A kitchen wall, yellow light, a vase of flowers on the table. Something bright and ordinary in the background.

I know it’s from before because Dakota is smiling.

She’s younger there. Sixteen, maybe. There’s no hat or bandana, and her long white-blond hair hangs loose around her shoulders in pretty waves, pale against her olive skin. Light hazel eyes shine at the camera, and vitiligo is visible across her face and arms, unhidden and proud. But the best part is seeing her hold up black painted nails near her cheek as if she’s showing them off.

A boy stands beside her, arm hooked around her shoulders in that careless, irritating way only a brother can get away with. He has the same shade of hair as Dakota and the same grin, even though his seems bolder and brighter.

A man stands behind them with tired eyes and a hand on Dakota’s shoulder, and I recognize him instantly.