Page 255 of Immune

I look at Hale, and then Mercer, then Valeria. Every one of them looks tired to different degrees. And honestly, I’mfucking tired too. But tired has never once stopped me from being someone’s biggest problem.

“I want Maine guarded,” I decide.

Hale starts, “He already—”

I slash my eyes to him and he stops. That’s cute.

“I want someone we trust outside his room,” I clarify. “Not compound trust. My trust.”

Fletcher nods once. “Done.”

“I want Kaito woken up if Davis gets within twenty feet of medical,” I continue.

“He’ll hate that,” Fletcher notes.

“Yeah? Well, he can file a complaint with my ass and kiss it.”

Fletcher’s mouth twitches. “Fair.”

“I want Ewan told not to make jokes at Davis unless he’s ready to start ducking.”

“I’ll tell him to stretch first.”

“And Xeon…” My throat tightens weirdly. “Xeon needs to know.”

Fletcher’s gaze holds mine, because he knows what I’m not saying.

Xeon, who touched me without a single punch of pity.

Xeon, who stayed.

Xeon, who needs to know the compound has already started looking at me like I’m a door with a lock they have a right to pick.

“I’ll find him,” Fletcher promises, and I nod.

Then I pull my bandana back up, the fabric covering my mouth. Not because Davis scared me back into hiding, but because teeth are a lot more useful when people forget they’re even there.

Hale watches the movement but his face doesn’t give anything away.

Valeria opens the door wider and offers, “I’ll escort you.”

“No,” I say, and her eyebrows lift. I look at Fletcher. The choice is mine, and that matters more than I could ever truly verbalize. “He can.”

Fletcher doesn’t smile, doesn’t puff up like some proud Alpha. He simply steps toward the hall and waits for me to move first.

I do.

The hallway outside feels narrower than it was before. Brighter. Cleaner. A lot more watched than the room we just left. Every camera seems to have eyes now, every closed door is a mouth with secrets tucked behind teeth.

Fletcher walks next to me, close enough that his cedar and leather scent splits through the compound’s bleach and recycled air. For once, I don’t step away from it.

We make it two turns before he finally says, “You handled him.”

“Well, I didn’t stab him,” I mutter.

“I guess that’s one interpretation.”

“What can I say? I’m growing as a person.”