Page 165 of Immune

His brow lifts and I glare at him. He peers down at his blood-darkened cloth, then he looks back at me. “Is this you offering medical advice?”

“With the appropriate level of hostility, yes,” I answer, giving him a sharp nod.

His mouth finally curves. It’s only small, but it’s real, and it hits harder than it has any right.

“I’ll check it,” he promises then.

I nod, sharp and awkward, then I move toward the door. I don’t run. Not from the platform, not from him, not even when my hands tremble as I step back into the office. I’m still angry, I’m still scared, and I’m definitely still overheated and under-blocked, entirely too aware of the taste of him as it lingers on my mouth.

But I’m not ashamed.

That feels dangerous, but maybe everything worth having does.

Behind me, Kaito follows at a careful distance. Close enough that if the world tries to reach its claws out for me, he’ll be there to stand in the way and stop it. But far enough that the option to leave still belongs to me.

TWENTY-SEVEN

DAKOTA

The compound is close enough to become a problem, but not close enough to be useful. Of course. That would actually require the universe to develop something crazy. Like manners. We’re all very well-versed in the knowledge that the universe was raised feral, in a barn, by wolves with rabies.

And yet it’s close enough that the streets start changing. There are fewer random wreckages and more deliberate barricades. Cars have been angled with purpose, windows are boarded from the inside, old shop fronts have been cleared of the worst of the debris, and watch posts are hidden in upper floors if you know just where to look.

I know where to look.

And so does Fletcher.

But so does Vector, too, apparently.

“Lower road’s watched,” Fletcher says from the cracked window of the road maintenance office.

I tug my bandana higher, mainly because Kaito is sitting too quietly near the wall and my mouth still remembers things it has no business replaying or filing away for future reference.

Stupid mouth.

Stupid memory.

Stupid injured Alpha behaving better than my nervous system is used to.

I cross to Fletcher instead of looking over at Kaito, because I am very much an adult with her priorities straight and absolutely no desire to emotionally analyze myself before I’ve at least had breakfast.

Beyond the maintenance office, the lower access road cuts between two old residential towers and a row of collapsed shops. Farther west, past toppled cars and a fallen pedestrian sign, the road should angle toward the cleared outer district near the compound.

Should being the operative word there.

Instead, there’s movement. Not the dead kind, either. Human. Three figures close to the far end of the road, half-hidden behind a burned-out bus and wearing dark clothes. There’s a yellow strip of material wrapped around one arm, and another one of them carries something long against his shoulder. It’s not a rifle, because it’s too bulky at the… front…

My stomach tightens suddenly when I realize what it is. The launcher from before flickers through my memory, the helicopter falling, and the pilot rasping Vector like the word crawled through razors up his throat.

“Vector,” I say quietly.

Fletcher’s jaw tightens. “Likely.”

“Likely,” Ewan repeats, eyeing the scarred Alpha. “Can’t convince me that word isn’t just certainty wearing a fancy top hat and waistcoat.”

I ignore him. “They’re still tracking him.”

My gaze then lands on the pilot. Maybe they’re tailing him. Maybe they’re after the cargo he had. Or maybe they’re chasing whatever the guy knows. Hell, maybe they’re after the broken syllable he breathed like a ghost in that security office.