Page 146 of Immune
Wet breathing.
Dripping blood.
The pilot’s faint groan.
My own pulse trying to split open my skull.
Fletcher pushes himself upright, one of his hands clamping tightly to his shoulder. Blood spills through his fingers, and I stare at it, a hot white wave of fury shredding through me. “What the actual fuck was that?”
Fletcher looks up at me. “A fast Rot.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” I snap.
“That’s usually Ewan’s expertise,” he says, voice rough with pain.
“Oi,” Ewan objects from across the room. “You’re not wrong, but rude much?”
To be honest, I barely hear him, because I’m already crouching in front of Fletcher. My hands hover because I don’t know whether I want to check the wound over or slap the stupid out of him. Both. Both is good.
“You shoved me,” I grit out.
“I moved you with excessive force,” he corrects, keeping a tight grip on the whole smart-ass routine I don’t appreciate.
“You put yourself between me and a Runner,” I point out, as if he needs his idiocy painted as a picture for him.
He nods once, then winces. “Sure looks that way.”
“Are you insane or fucking stupid?” I blurt harshly.
His eyes lift to mine with a calmness I don’t understand. It’s too calm, and it honestly makes me want to scream. Then the bastard explains, “You were in its path.”
“I had it,” I argue.
He's very quick to refute that argument. “No. You didn’t.”
The words fall between us, landing badly. Really badly. So much so that my anger flashes its teeth and snarls. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“You were half a second behind,” he tells me, pointing out my error.
My breath catches, because he’s right. Because I know he’s right. And because I hate him for being right and bleeding about it.
“You should have let me handle it,” I snap, unable to control the fury that’s practically pouring out of me.
Fletcher eyes me for a split second before telling me, “If I had, you’d be the one bleeding right now.”
“I bleed all the time,” I damn near shout, frustrated and angry and scared.
“That’s not a valid argument,” he counters.
I scoff humorlessly. “It is if you’re not an annoying bastard.”
He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, before he finally says, “You’re furious because I helped.”
“I’m furious because you made a stupid choice,” I correct, like that distinction matters.
