Page 272 of Immune

Then someone knocks on the door.

My whole body turns rigid against Ewan, and he feels it before I even move. The bond snaps tight, vivid with alertness. His hand goes still in my hair, and he quietly says, “Kota.”

The knock comes again, and then a male voice calls through the door. “Medical clearance. Commander’s orders.”

It’s not Kaito.

Not Fletcher.

Not Xeon.

Not Maine.

It’s a voice I don’t know well enough to trust. Which, to be fair, is most voices in this place. Still, something about this one makes the hair on the back of my neck lift. Maybe it’s the timing. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t introduce himself. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve spent years learning the difference between order and a lure.

Ewan’s arms tighten once, then loosen immediately, like he remembers before I have to remind him.

Another knock comes, one that sounds a little more brash than the first, and I tense all over before I can tell my body to calm down.

“Stay there,” he says, then winces. “No. Sorry. Bad words. What I mean is, I can check it, or we can ignore it, or you can throw something at the door. I’m a pretty big fan of option number three, if you want my input.”

The panic loosens by a single thread, and I force myself to take a steadying breath. I sit up, dragging the sheet with me. My body fully protests the movement in several places, all of them smug. Well, other than my knee and the wound on my arm. They’re still standing by with pitchforks and a determination to run me out of their village.

“Who is it?” Ewan calls.

“Hale wants the girl brought down to medical for clearance,” the stranger says, sounding much too close to the door.

My skin chills.

Not Dakota.

Not Kota.

Not O’Reilly.

Not even her.

The girl.

Hell, he doesn’t even tell us who he is.

Ewan feels the chill that settles in my bones through the bond, and his expression changes. He’s not joking now, not even grinning, just Alpha focus sliding quietly into place. He reaches for his clothes with one hand and passes me mine with the other, not looking in a way that feels deliberate without making things awkward.

As soon as his pants are on, Ewan calls back, “Medical clearance for what?”

A pause answers, too small to matter but also big enough to matter.

“That’s classified,” the voice on the other side of the door answers.

My fingers still around the edge of my shirt.

Classified.

That’s such an official word. Too official. The kind of word people use when they want questions to feel like disobedience.

Ewan turns to me and echoes my thoughts when he asks, “That sound official to you?”

“No,” I answer shortly, dressing quickly. I pull my shirt over my head, hiding the bite with my collar as best as I can. I stab my legs into my pants, then I shove my hair back under my hat with a lot less care than usual.