Page 310 of Immune

“Maine gets to see the records. So do I. No tests when I’m unconscious. No sedation unless I ask for it or I’m dying and Maine agrees.”

Maine’s face changes then, and Fletcher’s hand lands briefly on his shoulder.

I look over at Valeria. “No guards from Davis’s circle near me. Ever.”

“Done,” she agrees easily.

Hale looks at her, but she only looks back, face blank. That’s… interesting.

I turn to Hale then. “And if anyone in leadership starts even whispering the words subject, asset, breeding viability, or greater good, I walk. I’ll leave and I won’t look back. I’ll take every drop of my precious blood with me and leave you all in the shit. We clear?”

The room grows unbearably cold. Good. Let it.

Ewan’s bond flares with something that might be pride. Kaito’s settles even deeper. Fletcher huffs behind me, something very close to a laugh. And Xeon’s mouth barely moves, but I see it. The smallest curve I cement in my mind.

Hale studies me for a very long moment before he says, “You understand what’s at stake.”

“Yes,” I say with a slow nod. “Which is why I’m not letting you own it.”

Mercer closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them, he nods. “Your terms are reasonable.”

“They’re non-negotiable,” I bluntly retort.

“That, too,” he says, mouth twitching.

Hale doesn’t like it. I can see it as clearly as I can see the calculating little frown on his face. But I don’t care.

Eventually, he gives one sharp nod. “For now.”

“For always,” Maine corrects with an edge to his voice that doesn't go unnoticed.

I stare at Hale and I don’t blink when I repeat, “For always.”

The words settle over the table. Not peace or victory, but terms. A line drawn in a room full of people already imagining ways to step over or around it.

Mercer reaches for the empty vial only after one nod. My stomach drops at the sight of it but my hands remain flat on the table much like Kaito’s.

My voice is mine when I say, “Label first.”

Mercer does, slowly and carefully.

Dakota O’Reilly.

No code. No number. No subject.

Outside, Haven Ridge waits with its questions and fear and greedy little hope.

Inside, I sit between two bonds, with Fletcher’s steady presence at my back, a third absence aching quietly near the door, and my brother across from me looking ready to burn down the world with a plastic chair.

Mercer sets the labeled vial next to my hand.

Dakota O’Reilly.

Potentially immune.

My throat tightens and I look from the vial to Mercer.

“Now,” I say. “Tell me what my father did.”