Page 32 of Immune

Just as that thought floats through my brain, I hear the floor creak. Only barely, and anyone else might have missed it under the rain that goes from a soft pitter-patter to a hellacious downpour.

Another creak, closer this time, right before the scent hits me before Stranger does. Smoke, mud, old fabric. Bitter blockers. Blood. And, under all of it, something faint enough that I actually consider the possibility that I’m losing my mind. I mean, I have to be. Or maybe I’ve grown delusional, imagining something that isn’t there. Because there’s no way I actually smell something sweet, warm, and completely wrong.

And not wrong in a bad sense, but more wrong in the impossible sense. It’s like seeing flowers growing through snow, or hearing music in a house that’s supposed to be empty.

Before I can stop it, the Alpha in me wakes fully under my skin, but I keep my eyes closed. I fight to ignore it as Stranger stops beside the bed. The room suddenly turns so quiet that I can even hear the raindrops as they slide down the windowpanes. For a long, tortuous moment, nothing happens. They just stand there, close enough that their presence pushes against me like a blade held against skin.

Then the mattress dips, and my eyes open of their own free will. I can’t help but watch as Stranger climbs onto the bed. There isn’t an ounce of comfort in their body, nor is there trust, but one knee presses into the mattress beside my hip while the other foot remains secured to the floor. Their body is angled as if ready to escape at any moment, and I notice their weapon has been situated within reach just in case. The brim of their cap still hides most of their face, cast in sweeping shadows thanks to the darkness, but their eyes catch the very weak moonlight pouring through the curtains.

Hazel. Gold near the pupil and sharp enough to cut through stone.

Distracted, I miss the moment Stranger reaches for the hem of my shirt, and instinct has me reacting before my brain can stop it. I catch their wrist with a speed that would have impressed me had everything not changed the moment my fingers closed around them.

Stranger turns still in a way I can feel more than actually see. Not shocked, or confused, or startled. Oh, no. It’s more than that. Trapped. Captured. Stuck. That’s what it is, and the scent of fear cuts harshly through the room, fast and unrelenting, slicing through blockers, blood, and rain. Stranger’s whole body locksso tightly that my Alpha recoils from the knowledge that I caused it.

Without the gun in their hand, and the knife lying too far away by a mere half an inch, I can sense the panic bleeding from them. Their free hand curls as though they’re deciding whether or not to bite into my jugular or use their nails to gouge my eyes out.

I let go as quickly as I grabbed them, raising both of my hands real fucking slowly. I keep my palms open and empty, and Stranger doesn’t move a single inch. Neither do I, freezing the moment I hold my hands out in surrender.

For one long, suspended breath, the room around us becomes nothing but their wrist hanging between us and the echo of my fingers wrapped around it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my voice hushed and quiet so I don’t spook them. Those strange hazel eyes lift to mine the moment the words leave me, and I stare into them as I explain, “I startled, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

I receive absolutely nothing, but I can hear the way their breathing has changed. It’s too fast, too shallow. Controlled badly now, which somehow feels a lot more revealing than if they had visibly panicked. This isn’t a person who lets panic take the wheel. This is someone who beats the shit out of it in the back seat and drives casually afterward.

Rain patters against the roof. A Biter groans from below.

Stranger’s eyes drop to my hands, open and still, not reaching, and slowly, so painfully slowly, their shoulders gradually lower by a mere fraction. A tiny movement, almost nothing at all, but I count it anyway, because it means I’m a fraction further away from imminent death.

“Don’t grab me,” Stranger whispers roughly, this horrible, raspy, choked sound that tells a thousand stories more than words ever could. It’s lower than it wants to be, like they’repushing it down deliberately, but I don’t mention it. Now isn’t the time.

I shake my head instead.

“I won’t,” I promise.

That word, promise, feels way too big for the room, so I don’t bother uttering it out loud. I just hope Stranger can hear the vow in my voice.

They stare at me for a long, intense second, then they look down at my side as though eye contact is a luxury they’ve decided I no longer deserve. That’s fair, I guess, even though something bites at me over it. Their hand I grabbed disappears against their chest for a moment, their thumb pressing into the place my fingers touched only briefly. Stranger doesn’t rub the skin, merely touches, as if reminding themself that the wrist still belongs to them.

That bite turns into a gnaw in my stomach, and I can’t explain it away.

I don’t have to when Stranger reaches into their backpack and pulls out a tiny sewing kit with white flowers printed on the case. I can’t help but blink at it, because of all the things I was expecting tonight, being somewhat threatened by a floral sewing kit certainly didn’t make the list.

Stranger turns away from me to tear open an antiseptic wipe with their teeth, a flash of skin the only thing I see as they lower the bandana enough for the task before replacing it quickly. When they turn back around, they point at my shirt. They don’t utter a single word.

Right.

Got it.

With cautious and precise movements, I lift the hem of my shirt slowly. This time, Stranger doesn’t reach out to touch until the fabric is out of their way. Their gaze scans the wound, the soaked bandage, and the blood drying along my side. Evenwith most of their face covered, I can still tell they’re less than impressed.

I almost say something, almost crack a joke to break the tension, but I think better of it. I keep my mouth shut firmly, because there’s no doubt this room can’t handle jokes right now. They’ll land as flatly as I did back at that crumbling apartment building.

Instead, I hold my breath when Stranger reaches out to peel the bandage back. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding together when pain lances hot through my ribs. Hell, I clench so hard that my teeth actually ache.

Of course, Stranger notices. Their eyes flick to my face, then to my hands, and then back to the wound. My hands remain open on the mattress, fighting every urge to clench them tightly against the fierce burn in my side. Because I know it matters that they can see my open palms, my fingers flat against the mattress.

But then the antiseptic hits next, and I feel like I’ve just been licked by a hot poker. My fingers curl without my say-so, and Stranger stops moving instantly, pausing while I fight back a groan of sheer agony.