Page 45 of Immune

Kaito looks over his shoulder. “We should probably get going now.”

I nod, forcing my knee into cooperating before I snark, “Try to keep up this time, yeah?”

Those brown eyes warm with a tired kind of amusement as he breathes, “I’ll do my best, how about that?”

“Eh,” I breathe. “Your best has been questionable at best so far.”

“Hey, I’m still alive, aren’t I?” he argues softly, gesturing his good hand to his body.

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, because of me.”

“Mostly because of you,” he agrees, nodding sagely, and his agreement steals the next insult I had balancing on my tongue. Rude.

For a brief moment, I think about telling him to stop following me again. The words are right there, balancing on my tongue awaiting approval before spilling out of my mouth. Familiar, easy, safe, and a total waste of my breath if the past several encounters are anything to consider. The words sit behind my teeth, ready to be thrown like a knife, because that’s just what I do. I throw sharp things when people get too close. Knives. Words. Warnings. Whatever gets the job done. Whatever forces them to take a step back before my body gets all confused and shit, mistaking warmth for safety.

Kaito doesn’t step closer, though. He doesn’t ask where we’re going, doesn’t act like surviving one collapsing clinic together has earned him a place next to me. He just waits patiently, pale and bleeding and much too big for the moment, giving me a choice as if it even belongs to me.

And that right there is the problem, because it doesn’t. It doesn’t belong to me at all, but I can’t seem to conjure the strength to shoot the words I know I should spit at him.

Instead, I turn before he notices the hesitation, starting toward the treeline on the far side of the park. I head toward where the shadows have grown the thickest and the paths disappear under six years’ worth of weeds, shrubbery, and a whole lot of green that was once maintained.

Without uttering a single word, Kaito follows after me, because of course he does.

But this time?

This time I don’t tell him not to.

TEN

DAKOTA

Even though I don’t tell Kaito not to follow me, I certainly don’t invite him to tag along.

That distinction feels important. Spiritually, legally, emotionally, horizontally, astronomically, and whatever other shit people used to care about before the world became one big ol’ murder buffet. I didn’t explicitly tell him to come with me, nor have I accepted him as company. I haven’t even decided his presence is anything but an inconvenient outcome to poor decision-making, blood loss, and architecture that evidently holds a grudge.

He just so happens to be walking behind me, quiet and careful, like a kid who’s awake long past their bedtime and is becoming one with the couch to prolong their parents telling them to go to bed. He’s at a distance that tells me he’s paying attention to when my shoulders tense, where my steps shorten, and where my hand sneaks a little closer to my knife.

And that just makes it worse.

If he stomped about behind me like some arrogant Alpha with more muscle than manners, I could actually hate him properly. I could hiss at him to back off, cut left into the trees, lose him in the overgrown weeds, and I’d feel smug about it for at least a solid six minutes before guilt would try to grapple me to the ground and gnaw my ankles off.

But nooo. Kaito has decided to be all respectful and shit about following me. I almost wish he was rude about it, damn it.

The park has very much succumbed to the wilderness now, paths buried under weeds, moss, and tree roots that have cracked the old concrete apart. Rainwater gathers in the dipsof foliage, reflecting the gray clouds and the broken branches above. An old bandstand still sits close to the middle, roof now sagging, white paint peeling in long strips, and the railing is now suffocated by vines. A faded notice board leans to the side nearby, still advertising concerts set to play for summer, cheesy yoga mornings, and a missing cat named Booger from six years ago.

There’s absolutely no doubt that Booger is dead. Very, very dead.

I don’t say that out loud, though, because some truths simply don’t need to be spoken out loud. They don’t need witnesses, not when they’re depressing enough.

Kaito limps three steps behind me, his breathing controlled but rough enough that I know his side is giving him grief. He hasn’t mentioned it once since we left the public bathrooms, which is either admirable or deeply annoying. Most likely both. Just as annoying as catching the faintest hint of his scent under the wet earth and constant notes of rot that linger everywhere.

Burning wood. Worn flannel. Blood. Alpha.

Every time the wind shifts and changes, my Omega perks up, because she apparently enjoys making stupid and downright questionable contributions to already questionable situations. And every time she lifts her head, I aggressively ignore her, shoving her away for what feels like the billionth time since my luck went all to shit.

We cut through the park toward the front gates, shifting through overgrown shrubs and the skeletons of old branches. My knee is pulsing with pain with every step like a little bastard, sending white-hot agony up my thigh whenever I put too much weight on it. I refuse to limp any more than I’m already doing, mainly because Kaito is behind me and, honestly, I’d ratherchoke down a dry suppressant than hand the man another reason to ask me if I’m okay in that quiet, soft voice of his.

I mean, he already knows I’m not, and that’s one of the problems. He already knows things without needing or making me hand them over. So what’s the point in asking?