Page 92 of Immune

Cargo.

Vector.

The world narrows down to the small rise and fall of the pilot’s chest, and Xeon’s hand presses harder to the bandage. “Research for what?”

The pilot’s lashes flutter, and his voice grows fainter as he whispers, “NO… VAC…”

Every drop of blood within me turns to ice.

NOVAC.

The word hits me with the force of a wrecking ball, aiming and colliding with all of the old places in my memory. Dad hunched over notes on the kitchen table, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. Mom’s scent turning sour with grief, honey curdled into something frantic and completely wrong. Maine telling me I needed the Omega shit every month.

White eyes in the bathroom.

Jaws snapping.

A noose groaning from the shower rail.

Six years of Zeds. Six years of blockers. Six years of hiding the one thing NOVAC made too dangerous to be.

My hand instinctively moves to Maine’s hat under my jacket, even though I don’t remember telling it to move.

The pilot sucks in one shallow breath, forcing out, “O’R…”

And everything inside me stops.

No.

My vision tunnels.

“O’R?” Fletcher repeats sharply. “O’R what?”

But the pilot’s eyes roll to the back of his head and he falls completely limp in the next breath, Xeon catching him before he falls sideways onto the floor. He curses softly, lowering him flat, and says, “He’s out.”

“No,” I rasp, shaking my head. It comes out too fast. Too loud in the suddenly quiet room, and all four Alphas turn to look at me. I hate them for it, but I hate myself more.

I force my hand away from the hat, but my fingers have already curled into the fabric. My heartbeat is thundering loudly. Too loud. My scent is probably louder, sweet fear splitting under my skin, sharp enough to taste through my own bandana.

Kaito’s eyes find mine and that one look tells me everything.

He knows. Maybe not all of it, but he knows enough. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“What does O’R mean?” Fletcher asks.

“Could be anything,” I answer, but my voice has grown rough. Wrong.

Ewan’s gaze flicks from me to the pilot, and then back to me. “Didn’t sound like just anything.”

“I don’t remember asking you, did I?” I snap.

“No,” he answers easily. “But I have a history of struggling with waiting to be invited.”

“Then how about you start now?” I order sharply, and his mouth shuts with a snap.

Xeon watches me carefully through it all before he carefully asks, “Do you know what he meant?”

“No,” I answer shortly.