Page 259 of Immune

I press a hand to my chest dramatically. “Damn. Romance isn’t dead after all.”

This time, the sound she makes is almost a laugh. Then her eyes close too hard, as if the sound surprised her and she hates that it even came out to begin with.

I know that look all too well. To her, enjoyment is a betrayal. Pleasure is proof the world hasn’t actually hurt you enough yet.

I shift only a little. “You’re allowed, you know.”

Her eyes open and she peers over at me.

“To laugh,” I clarify. “To breathe. To want something that’s not survival and rations and a working lock.”

I catch her scent change again. Honey warms and rain turns into a downpour.

Her eyes drop to my mouth, but only for a second before she snatches her gaze away again.

My Alpha notices, though. I’m not even surprised that he does. He’s a bit of a primitive bastard with seriously god-awful timing. I push him down until he’s nothing but a quiet echo in the back of my head, watching and waiting without gnashing teeth or grabbing hands.

Outside the storage room, footsteps pass down the corridor. Voices follow, blurred by distance, and Dakota turns rigid. Her scent spikes, bright and sharp, and her fingers tighten around her knife.

I keep my voice low and steady. “Name five things you can hear.”

Her gaze snaps to me, irritated through the panic. Good. I’d rather have her irritated than absent.

“I’m not doing therapy homework,” she tells me.

“Okay. Good for you,” I volley. “So, name five things you hear, but be rude about it.”

Her eyes narrow as the footsteps fade, then she inhales once. A shaky sound I don’t focus on.

Then she says, “Your music.”

“One.”

“Your breathing.”

“Two.”

“Some asswad outside dragging his feet.”

“Three and, might I add, very accurate. Pick your feet up, am I right?” I sigh.

She doesn’t respond to that, simply continuing with her list. “The light buzzing.”

“Four.”

Her jaw works under the bandana, but I wait patiently. Her grip gradually loosens around her knife by a fraction, and then she finally says, “My own pulse.”

“Five.”

The room settles a little after that. Not safe, but safer. There’s a pretty big difference. Dakota’s fingers move to the player and the volume lowers. She doesn't turn it off completely, only drops the volume, then her eyes meet mine.

“Does it bother you?” she asks.

“What?”

“That I’m not…” she starts, right before her jaw tightens under the bandana. It takes a second for her to continue, but she does even though it looks like it costs her. “That I’m not soft about it.”

I frown. “About what?”