Page 287 of Immune

I keep my hand out toward her, and she looks at me like she hates needing anything. I’m so used to that look now that it doesn’t faze me. What does faze me is the way she slides her bloody fingers into my hand, because every single instinct I have suddenly wants to close around her. Hold her. Lift her. Get her out.

Obviously, I don’t do any of that. I only curl my fingers around hers just enough to keep contact. She’s not steady, no, but that’s not the same as helpless.

I look over at Valeria, telling her, “No one follows unless she asks.”

Mercer steps forward. “I need—”

“You need to wait.”

His face tightens. “If NOVAC triggered—”

Dakota jerks and I turn my head slow enough that Mercer stops talking. Smart man.

“Not in the hallway,” I mutter.

Valeria nods once. “Take her. I’ll hold everyone back. Hale will likely appear soon, so get her gone before he gets here.”

Maine shoves against Fletcher’s arm. “I’m going with her.”

Dakota looks over at him and whatever is left of her face softens so fast that it actually hurts to watch. “Maine.”

“No,” he demands. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like Mom when she was trying to make me calm down.”

Dakota’s mouth trembles and Fletcher’s hold on Maine loosens only slightly. He doesn’t let go, though. Probably for the best, especially when Dakota tells her brother, “I just need a minute.”

Maine’s jaw clenches before he looks over at me. There’s a warning in those pale eyes, and I respect it. I would have been disappointed if there wasn’t one.

“If she asks for you,” I tell him, “I’ll come get you myself.”

“You better.”

I nod, and Dakota squeezes my hand once. Not in thanks, and not in forgiveness. It’s a signal to move that I catch quickly, so I do. I lead her down the hall, past blood and guards and the dead man who thought he had the right to call her ruined.

Dakota doesn’t look back.

I do.

Only once, catching Ewan still watching her. He’s still pale, still hurt, and furious. But he’s not afraid of her. None of them are afraid of her, and that’s the only damned thing that keeps my temper bottled before it becomes a problem.

The room I take Dakota to isn’t mine. It’s an old training room off the west hallway, not used much now from the looks of things. Rubber mats are on the floor, a single bench is pressed against the wall, and there’s a sink in the corner for rinsing first and blood off after drills. There aren’t any windows, but there are two exits and they’re both visible.

There’s no bed, either. That’s good. A bedroom would feel all kinds of wrong right now, but medical would be worse. This place doesn’t have enough softness to even fake safety. Only space, edges, and choices.

I check both doors, the storage closet, the ceiling vent, and the corners. All the while, Dakota stands in the middle of the mat and watches me closely.

“You expecting the bogeyman or something?”

“Yup.”

She blinks.

“I was being sarcastic,” she points out.

“I wasn’t,” I tell her, and her mouth closes with a small clack of her teeth.