Page 359 of Immune

By the time Haven Ridge comes into view, my hands have stopped shaking. I can’t say that’s necessarily a good thing, because shaking means the fear has somewhere to go. Somewhere honest. Stillness means I’ve only gone and packed it away with all the other stuff I plan to deal with later. Probably never. Very likely at the worst possible time, like if someone says something mild about passing the salt and I decide to have a full-blown mental collapse right there at the dinner table.

Assuming we ever get to sit at a dinner table again. And assuming Dakota even lets anyone cook for her without her threatening to supervise the veg.

My headphones sit crooked around my neck, one side irritatingly cracked from the fight and the padding smeared with a streak of blood that I’m choosing to believe doesn’t belong to her. They’ve survived six years living among the infected, shitty weather, terrible music, and my very questionable coping skills, but apparently it’s Vector that almost did them in with a single kidnapping.

Typical, honestly.

Dakota is half-conscious in Xeon’s arms when we reach the south service road and that part is sitting heavily on my shoulders. Not because I’m jealous, because I’m not. I don’t mind that he’s carrying her. What’s bothering me is the way he’s carrying her so carefully, like she’s something breakable and sacred and will literally bite him if he so much as moves wrong. Which, to be fair, is a valid concern to have. Dakota has always possessed some crazy-strong feral cat energy.

Her head rests on his shoulder, with Maine’s hat placed back on her head, the brim low enough to cast her face in more shadows than the night does. Blood streaks across her cheeks and more blood coats her hands. Her wrists look red-raw from the restraints, the black polish has cracked over split nails, and her breathing keeps hitching every time the drugs try to drag her under only to sharpen again when one of her bonds pulls her back.

Mine.

Kaito’s.

Fletcher’s.

Three threads wrapped around her in a cocoon, three frantically panicked anchors trying to hold her in this diabolical world that tried to take her from us.

And then there’s Xeon. Carrying her in silence, face blank in a way that isn’t calm at all. He found her without ever needing the world to make it easy for him, and that should matter. It does. It matters way more than I could ever say.

Dakota stirs against him, her lashes fluttering. Then she rasps, “Still kidnapped?”

My chest breaks apart right there and then, right before patching itself back together roughly.

“Nah,” I tell her, keeping my voice even enough that it disguises the residual panic I can still feel thrumming through my body. “Super dramatic rescue completed. Got some mixed reviews but overall good score. The viewers liked the explosions. Strong opening, messy middle, solid end. I don’t recommend it.”

Her mouth twitches. “Did I rate it?”

I sigh. “You called it mean.”

“Then five stars for you,” she mutters before her eyes slide closed again.

I laugh once and it hurts. It hurts everywhere.

Fletcher glances over from where he’s walking ahead, rifle in hand and blood dried over his jaw. “She awake?”

“She’s insulting our high-quality cinematic rescue, so yeah,” I tell him casually.

“I gave it five stars. Don’t be greedy,” she grumbles without opening her eyes.

I flash a grin at Fletcher and he rolls his eyes as he says, “Good.”

That’s all he says, but cedar and leather pushes through the bond, steady and rough. Kind of like relief layered in razors.

Maine walks on the other side of Xeon and Dakota, close enough that his shoulder keeps brushing Xeon’s. He hasn’t stopped looking at her since we left Vector’s burning camp behind us, almost like he thinks if he blinks for too long she’ll vanish again. A very reasonable fear to have, honestly.

Kaito carries the recovered NOVAC drives in a sealed case taken from Vector’s transport truck. He has blood on his sleeve that doesn’t belong to him and probably not from the same person either. The man surprised me with how brutal he is when there’s something vital on the line for him to fight for. I’ve seen the guy as calm and quiet, intense when it comes to anything Dakota. Never would have anticipated the level of intensity, but I can’t say I’m upset about it.

His face gives nothing away, but the bond through Dakota keeps echoing with a quiet, lethal kind of focus.

Valeria’s guards meet us before the outer gates. They stop when they see us.

Well, actually no. They stop when they see her.

Dakota O’Reilly, dragged right back out of a Vector cage and brought back under her own goddamn name.

The compound must have expected a rescue party or something. Maybe a body, or maybe nothing. Instead, they get a bloody Dakota drugged off her absolute tits, bruised, raging,and very much alive. They get Maine walking beside her. They get three bonded Alphas moving like anyone who even thinks to sneeze wrong around her will lose their noses. They get Xeon carrying her like his silence has finally decided to become a threat. They get a sealed case of stolen NOVAC cargo.