Page 288 of Immune

I lock the main door, then I drag the bench in front of it, not because it would stop a determined Alpha. Because it would slow him down, and sometimes slow is enough to stay alive instead of becoming dead.

Dakota watches every movement without another single word.

Good.

Let her see what I’m doing.

Let her see there are still exits.

Let her see my hands.

Let her see I’m not making decisions behind her back.

When I turn back, she’s staring at her palms again. The blood has already started to dry dark.

“I can feel it,” she says.

“The blood?”

“No,” she answers quietly, her throat working around a harsh swallow.

I wait.

She looks up at me when I don’t respond, and she says, “The thing.”

My chest tightens. “What thing?”

Her laugh comes out ragged and thin. “Don’t make me say it like I even know what the hell I’m talking about.”

“I’m not,” I tell her.

“Yes, you are,” she contradicts. “You do this thing where you sound all calm and reasonable and shit, and it makes people feel like they have to organize their thoughts before you’ll let them fall apart.”

“That’s not why I do it.”

“Then why?”

“Because,” I start, shrugging a shoulder. “If I don’t sound calm, I might start breaking things.”

She stares at me then, and I watch as my words land where they’re supposed to. That’s good, because she should know. I’m not steady because I don’t have violence tucked away inside me. I’m steady because I learned early on what happens when violence claims the reins.

Dakota looks down at her hands again. “It moved inside me. When he touched me. Like something suddenly woke up.”

I don’t say anything.

“I don’t even mean instinct,” she adds. “I know instinct. I know fear and adrenaline. This wasn’t that.”

“I know.”

Her head snaps up. “Do you?”

“Yup.”

Her eyes narrow. “Watch it.”

“What?”

“You’re doing the thing again,” she tells me, her voice toeing the edge of sharpness.