Page 257 of Immune

THIRTY-EIGHT

EWAN

The first sign I notice that Dakota isn’t fine is that she stops insulting everyone.

Well, not fully. I mean, she’s not dead.

It’s just enough that the air around her changes.

Usually, Dakota’s mouth is like a landmine loaded with spikes. Someone steps wrong, and she snaps. Someone says something stupid, and she’ll strip away their dignity with a really scary level of skill. Someone looks at her for a beat too long, and suddenly they’re being compared to wet cardboard or being called a failed government experiment.

But after meeting that bellend, Davis? She goes eerily quiet. And that’s way worse. I don’t even need to meet the fucker to know I already hate him, especially if Dakota has grown quiet enough that it actually scares me.

By the time I find her, she’s wedged herself into a narrow storage room off the old residential wing with one knee pulled up, one hand curled around the handle of her knife, and my headphones clamped over her ears like she’s trying to keep her skull together with padded plastic.

The room is barely a room, too. More of a cupboard with an impressive amount of ambition. Shelves line one wall, stacked with old blankets, broken lanterns, batteries that may or may not work, and a box labeled HOLIDAY DECOR in black marker. I mean, yeah, okay, I guess the apocalypse needs sad little Christmases.

Dakota sits on the floor under the lowest shelf, her hat on, bandana up, hair tucked away, and eyes open and far away. My music is playing softly in her ears, and I only know becausethe wire trails from the headphones to the little player in her lap. Same old song I always keep around because the beat is steady enough and the bass doesn't rattle my brain. Nothing dramatic or anything. Definitely nothing with shouting. Just a low, steady pulse, warm and consistent.

Her scent is all wrong, too. Not gone and definitely not buried enough. Wild honey and rain leak through the blocker that lingers in her bloodstream and bleeds through the panic, thin as a light under a locked door. Under it is something sharper. Metallic. Fear. Rage wrangled so tightly that it’s gone completely quiet.

I stop in the doorway, but I don’t step into the room. I don’t crowd her, and I don’t turn myself into another wall.

“There you are,” I say, announcing myself.

Her eyes flick to mine without a flinch or greeting, which is fine. I still consider that progress.

I lift both hands in a show of surrender before telling her, “I want it on the record that I didn’t stalk you. I simply followed the smell of murderous feelings and it led me here.”

Nothing.

Then a single eyebrow twitches. Tiny. Beautiful.

There she is.

I lean against the doorframe and jerk my head toward her. “Also, you stole my headphones.”

Her fingers tighten on the player. “You abandoned them in the hallway.”

My lips twitch and an amused frown paints itself over my face. “I’ll have you know, I left them on a chair.”

She nods once. “I do recall the hallway having a chair.”

It’s a fight not to laugh, but I keep it contained, instead informing her, “Where I’m from, we call that theft, Tiny Terror.”

“Where I’m from, it’s called survival.”

“Pretty sure that’s pirate law. Can I start calling you Captain Jack?” I tease.

She raises her eyebrow higher, more noticeable now. “Depends. You gonna start crying about it?”

“Only a little,” I tell her seriously. “On the inside, at least. I’m actually trying to be very brave about it.”

The corners of her eyes tighten with something very close to amusement. It’s not enough, but it’s close, and I’ll take it.

Tapping two fingers against my own ear, I ask her, “Can you hear me all right?”

She nods once.