Page 49 of Immune

The third has dark brown hair a little too long, headphones resting around his neck, and a look on his face that makes me think he’s about two seconds away from saying something deeply unhelpful. His body, however, is ready. Knife in one hand, gun in the other, his eyes moving constantly. His body is relaxed in the same way a tripwire looks harmless until your boot catches it.

Three Alphas. Three unknowns. Three very big reasons to leave.

And my stupid, betraying body reacts before my mind can give it permission.

Fear explodes through me, and not a small flicker of it. This is a full-body detonation. It’s like I’ve stepped on a landmine of fear, the emotion pulsing through me with no way for me to stop it.

The blockers hold for maybe half a second before they fucking crack, and my scent spikes. I feel it happen. Feel the nauseating little burst of sweetness sneak under the smoke, rain, rot, and burning metal.

All three Alphas freeze at once and their heads turn in tandem. Not fully toward me, not yet, but definitely in my direction. The blond one’s nostrils flare, the one with earrings grows lethally still, and the one with headphones lowers his chin, eyes sharpening dangerously.

Behind me, Kaito stops breathing entirely.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.

I back up too quickly, and Kaito’s hand lifts. He doesn’t touch me, simply hovers his hand near my shoulder as though he hasn’t got a clue whether he should steady me or keep his distance.

He chooses the latter before whispering, “They scented something.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Your powers of observation are out of this world,” I hiss back, voice thin and thready under my bandana.

My pulse is going crazy now, too. My skin prickles under my clothes, and my Omega has fully risen in my mind, panic throwing scent into the air like some fucked-up distress flare because biology is a back-stabbing bitch with no survival training whatsoever.

I clamp down hard on it. Or, at least, I try to.

The problem with scent is that it literally doesn’t give a shit how hard you clench your teeth. It doesn’t care one bit that your brain is screaming no. It comes from the softest, stupidest, oldest parts of you. The parts that still think survival means being found by the right set of teeth.

What a load of crap. I don’t believe in a good set of teeth. They all bite, after all.

The three Alphas across the road start scanning suddenly. There’s nothing casual about it, either. It’s not like they’ve simply smelled the coppery tang of blood or the ashy scent of smoke. They’re like predators who’ve caught a thread that will lead directly to me.

Kaito shifts half a step, placing his body between me and the corner without fully blocking my escape. It’s another careful move, and another problem I don’t have time to unpack right now.

I watch as the scarred Alpha says something to the others, and I hate that I can’t hear the words over the crackle of fire that has ignited in several places of the helicopter. I do, however, see the shape of command in his body. I catch the one with earrings glance toward the apartment above them, and the one with headphones shifts his position, the humor now gone from his face.

They work together, evidently not strangers or a loose group, but a unit. A team. A dangerous group of Alphas I have no business being anywhere near.

One Alpha can be avoided. Three Alphas who move like they’re one being and can understand one another’s blind spots? That’s a whole other problem wearing a different coat and rain boots.

Before my brain can function properly, however, the first wave of Zeds reaches the crash site. They pour in from the park entrance and apartment courtyards, drawn by the impactand gunfire. It’s mostly Rotters at first, slow and damaged and missing limbs, dragging themselves over ruined sidewalks, through the overgrown greenery, and between rusted cars. There have to be dozens of them, if not more, their groans blending together all wet and hungry and gross.

The three armed men turn toward the threat and they fall into action like a well-oiled machine. The dirty-blond one barks something I can’t hear while the one with earrings raises his gun and aims. The one with headphones fires first, and suddenly the crash site erupts in a cacophony of chaos.

Gunshots crack across the road, echoing off concrete and shattered glass. Rotters drop, but more replace them, pushing forward with hunger in their empty, clouded eyes. Smoke coils all around the wreck, and something inside the helicopter pops and spits sparks, sending a brief flare of orange through the gray morning.

The moving body near the wreck jerks at the sound and my eyes snap to it.

Alive.

Fuck.

He drags one arm under himself, trying to crawl away from the helicopter. His flight suit is ruined, and blood runs slick down the side of his helmet. One of his legs is bent all wrong, sickeningly so, and the guy only manages to crawl roughly three inches before collapsing again.

My stomach twists uncomfortably, because if that guy really is alive, that means he could have information. Supplies. It means he might know who shot them down.

Kaito grabs my wrist suddenly and, this time, I barely flinch. Barely. It’s enough of a reaction that his fingers loosen immediately, and he whispers lowly, “We need to get out of here now.”