Page 384 of Immune

“Then your soul must be attached to your hand.”

“Scientifically unproven,” I argue, shaking my head and jerking my hand by accident.

Oops.

“Mercer would agree with me,” Maine says over a sigh, using his blunt nails to remove a streak of black painted over my skin.

I scoff at my brother. “Mercer literally spent forty minutes arguing with a cupboard because he thought it was jammed once. What kind of argument are you trying to make here?”

“It was jammed,” Maine defends.

“It opened inward,” I tell him blandly.

Maine pauses then, nail polish brush suspended above my middle finger. The wind lifts a pale strand of hair across his face, and he blows it away with far more drama than was called for.

“You know,” he says. “I could still make one nail glittery.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “You wouldn’t.”

His gray eyes narrow on me. “Try me.”

“I’m a respected member of this community, you know,” I tell him, giving him a dirty look. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

He only raises an eyebrow. “You threatened a councilman with a teaspoon literally just last week.”

I pause. “He called me inspiring.”

“You said, and this is a direct quote, ‘Call me that again and I’ll ram this spoon so far up your ass you’ll choke on the handle,’ so I’m not sure what to tell you,” he reminds me, quoting me word for word.

I hate it when he does that.

“In my defense, I restrained myself,” I mutter, wincing when he colors outside the lines on my index finger.

Maine smiles then, a small and crooked smile that always suckers me with how familiar it is. It still does something weird to my chest even a year after we finally found one another again.

The roof under us is warm from the afternoon sun, rough concrete biting through the blanket we decided to drag up here. Haven Ridge is spread out below, bigger and louder than it was a year ago. Less haunted. Or maybe the ghosts have simply learned to make room for the living. For gardens, andlaundry lines, and watchtowers, and people yelling about stolen potatoes.

The fence still stands.

The gates still lock.

And the world beyond them is still littered with teeth and claws and everything that wants to kill you for simply living.

But inside? Inside is different.

Someone has painted the medical building blue. A kid is running after a half-feral chicken close to the kitchens. Two Betas are arguing over where to hang lanterns for tonight’s gathering. An Omega I recognize from Mercer’s clinic is walking across the yard with her scent uncovered, a knife at her hip, and three friends laughing next to her.

No one stops her.

No one looks away either.

They see her, and that matters.

I sit with my back against the low wall, legs stretched out in front of me, my boot-covered ankles crossed. My tactical gear doesn’t swallow me whole anymore. No shapeless jackets, no dead-scent layers, and no pretending my body is an urban legend. Black leggings. Boots. Fitted black shirt. A blade strapped to my thigh because as beautiful and pure as healing is, having options feels just as good.

My hair is loose around my shoulders, a matching white-blonde to Maine’s, though mine is far longer and spills in waves everywhere like it’s been waiting seven years to be an official pain in the ass, especially in public. Pale patches mark my arms, my hands, my neck, the skin disappearing under my clothes.

Vitiligo. Completely visible now and mine to own with pride or fear it might get me killed.