Page 320 of Immune

I slide my hand into his hair. “Stay right here.”

His whole body softens. “Yes, ma’am.”

I huff a breath that might be a laugh if I had energy for one. “Don’t even think of overusing that just because you’ve learned that I actually like it.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Fletcher,” I groan, scraping my nails through his hair.

His mouth curves against my throat, and there he is. I feel it now.

Ewan, bright and hot.

Kaito, dark and steady.

Fletcher, solid and warm.

Three bonds and three very different ways of staying.

Across the yard, far past the fence, the compound lights sweep over the trees. Haven Ridge is still there wanting answers. Mercer still wants blood. Hale still wants control dressed up as duty. And somewhere near a door, or a wall, or a shadow, Xeon is still choosing me without any thread to pull him there.

That thought shoots a dart of pain into my chest, but Fletcher’s hand slides down to cover mine where it rests against the bench. Not trapping, just there.

“You doin’ alright, darlin’?” he asks softly.

I look up at him. At the Alpha who could have made protection into a cage and chose to hand me the key instead.

“Nope,” I say honestly, running my eyes over every inch of his face and storing the image into my brain for safekeeping.

His thumb strokes once over my knuckles. “Same here, darlin’.”

I breathe in slowly, my chest pressed snugly against his warmth, and take in the night smells like rust, rain, cedar, and leather.

My body is sore.

My throat burns.

My future is still a total shitshow waiting outside the yard.

But Fletcher is above me, around me, inside me, bonded to me by choice and held back by it too.

A shield.

Not a cage.

And for tonight, that is more than enough.

FORTY-FOUR

FLETCHER

Two days after Dakota gives me her throat, I notice the way she keeps looking for Xeon. She thinks she’s being subtle about it, but I don’t think she realizes how obsessed we’ve all grown with her. We don’t miss a damn thing when it comes to her.

Which is how I also notice the way she stops limping every time she thinks someone might be watching.

Her knee is better. Not even close to healed yet, but it’s better enough that she gets angry every time someone asks about it, which is usually a sign Dakota O’Reilly is recovering. Her arm has stopped bleeding through bandages and the bruising along her side has faded from an ugly purple to a sickly yellow. Ellis has officially downgraded her medical opinion from “walking disaster” to “annoying but mobile.” Her words, not mine.

Dakota called it progress.