Page 343 of Immune

Left.

Close.

A sliver of fear slips through it, right before the pain. Then Dakota’s rage, bright enough to cut through the drugs and through my own anger bleeding through my veins.

She’s alive and she’s still fighting.

I lift my blade right before bodies start hitting the floor. Before Vector knows we’re even inside the building.

A guard turns and Xeon takes his voice first while Ewan takes his gun. Fletcher takes his feet and I take his life.

After that, we move through the corridor like one unit with five points, not shouting or wasting movements. We move without mercy for men who have built cages and labeled them as transport.

At the end of the hall, a red light glows above a reinforced door. My bond pulls harder toward it, strong and so sharp my breath leaves me.

Dakota.

I stop and Fletcher stops right next to me. Ewan lifts his weapon at the ready and Xeon steps close to the lock. Maine raises the shotgun, hands way steadier now.

Inside, something metal crashes.

Then Dakota screams.

Not fear.

Pure, unbridled fury.

My control doesn’t break then. It simply becomes a weapon of its own making.

I look at the men beside me and say coldly, “Open it.”

Vector doesn’t even know we’ve arrived until the door comes off its hinges.

FORTY-SEVEN

DAKOTA

Waking up is so goddamn rude.

But you know what’s even more rude? Waking up in pain.

The first thing I become aware of is my mouth. It’s dry as the Sahara with a bitter and wrong tang I can’t seem to run away from. My tongue feels too big, my teeth too sharp, and every breath I try to take tastes like chemicals, old metal, and someone else’s really shitty life choices.

For a few seconds, I don’t open my eyes. It’s not because I’m scared, because I am. I’m scared out of my mind, obviously. But fear can wait its turn this time.

I need information first.

My wrists have been restrained above my head, locked into something cold and metal. Not rope. Not cuffs. Something… I don’t know, something mounted? What I do know is that my shoulders are burning from the position, my muscles trembling from dangling like a fish on a hook for too long. My ankles are strapped down too, because of course they are. Love that. My thighs are basically strapped tight to some kind of narrow chair or tilted table.

A medical chair, I realize with a healthy dose of horror.

Wait, no. Not medical. Because that word actually implies the idea of helping. This shit isn’t helping anyone but the fucks who took me. This is literally just a cage that learned big, fancy science words.

I keep my breathing slow. At least, I do my very best. The drug is still pumping through my bloodstream, thick andsluggish, making every thought drag itself through quicksand before it finally reaches the front of my skull.

My body doesn’t feel numb, though. I actually think numb might be better, because this shit feels like I’m being wrapped in wet cloth from the inside out, every one of my instincts muffled and every limb responding just late enough to piss me off.

My Omega is there, but she’s far away in my head. She’s angry and pinned down, fury pulsing from her in waves.