Page 147 of Immune

“I made a necessary one,” he says, still much too calm. Too collected. Too controlled.

“You got hurt,” I say.

“So do you.”

“That’s different.”

His eyes sharpen then, and he’s very quick to ask, “Why?”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because it is different. Because I’m used to my own blood. Because my pain belongs to me. I understand the rules of it. I know what to do with it. I can press cloth to it, wrap it, stitch it, ignore it, and move on. But someone else bleeding for me? That’s a language I don’t speak anymore. A language I refuse to even think about anymore. Not since Maine walked out the door. Not since Mom went quiet. And not since every person I’ve loved became memories and ghosts, a wound, or a promise that didn’t come back.

Fletcher watches me like he sees the thought take shape and decides not to name it. Smart man. Infuriating man.

“You don’t get to be the only one who keeps people alive,” he says quietly.

And the room falls utterly quiet. Even Ewan shuts his mouth, which is actually alarming enough to count as a natural disaster.

I stare at Fletcher as the words do something ugly to my chest.

No. Not ugly. Worse.

Soft.

They reach for a place I keep locked so tightly I’ve actually forgotten the shape of the key. Hell, I don’t even know if I have the key anymore.

You don’t get to be the only one who keeps people alive.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate that my throat tightens.

I hate that he’s bleeding and calm and looking at me like this was the simplest and easiest choice to make. Like steppingbetween me and death was an obvious thing that didn’t need thinking about. Like the cost was just a cost and not a debt I will now carry around with me in my ribs until it turns into something with claws and a hunger for flesh.

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” I whisper.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“No,” he says. “I chose where I stood.”

The air changes at that. Not much, but enough to note the difference. Cedar and leather bleed through the rot and blood, solid, warm, and too close. My body notices before I can tell it not to, because apparently my body is a traitorous little bitch with terrible priorities.

Fletcher’s gaze drops only once, to where my hands are still hovering near his wound. Then he looks back to my face and says, “You can be angry.”

“Thanks for the permission I didn’t ask for,” I blurt.

His mouth almost twitches.

Almost.

“Patch me up angry, then,” he commands, this time with less bark so my hackles don’t rise.

“I should leave you to leak until you run dry,” I threaten.

“You won’t,” he says, sounding real sure of himself.