Page 148 of Immune

I lean closer, and that turns out to be a colossal mistake. His scent hits much harder the closer I am. Cedar, leather, smoke from the gunfire, and blood that underlines it all. His shoulders are much too broad in the cramped space. His jaw tightens from pain, but he doesn't flinch away. Doesn’t soften his voice. And he doesn’t treat me like I’m glass that is one inconvenience away from shattering.

That should help, but it doesn’t.

“You don’t know me,” I remind him.

“No,” he says quietly. “But I know you don’t leave wounds unattended.”

My pulse trips over itself, and I hate that he somehow learned that. I hate that all of them seem to be learning me in small but clear pieces. Hat. Nails. Exits. Limp. Scent. Silence. Bleeding. How long until there’s nothing left to hide? How long before hidden stops feeling safe?

“Dakota,” Xeon says softly from across the room, careful but urgent. “We need to move soon.”

Right.

Right.

The room. The dead. Vector. The pilot. The shutter still jammed. The supply room that smells like blood and rot and too many things I can’t handle right now.

I yank my backpack open with a little more force than necessary, pulling out the gauze a moment later. Then I snap at Fletcher, “Stay still.”

He obeys, and it absolutely shouldn’t satisfy me in any kind of way. It does, though.

I cut away the torn edge of his shirt with a smidge more aggression than the task actually needs. The wound is ugly, but not deep enough to kill him. Claw marks are lines across the top of his chest and shoulder, each wound bleeding freely and already swelling red around the edges.

There’s no bite, though.

Thank God. Not that I even believe in him. But still, no bite.

“You’re lucky,” I mutter.

“Been called worse,” he murmurs back.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” I inform him.

“I know.”

“You’re beyond the scope of annoying, you know that?” I point out.

“So I’ve heard,” he says, as if that’s not news to him.

I sigh. “Stop talking.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

My hand freezes and his eyes meet mine. The room around us vanishes for one ridiculous second.

Yes, ma’am.

It should annoy me. It does. It pisses me off. But it also sends heat flushing through my body so fast I almost drop the antiseptic wipe.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I tear open the packet with my teeth and press it to his wound. I’m not exactly gentle about it, either, and Fletcher’s jaw clenches before he grits out, “Careful.”

“Thought you were all tough and shit,” I snark.

“I am,” he says sternly.