Page 98 of Immune

Which, honestly, is absolutely fair.

I, too, am most deeply offended by weather.

The rain hits my jacket first, soaking into the mud and smoke I spent literal days rubbing into the fabric. It lures grime from the cuffs, from the knees of my cargo pants, from the bandana covering half of my face. Every single careful layer I’ve used to bury myself decides now is the time to start loosening under the water.

Smoke thins. Mud streaks. Old fabric loses the stolen scent I worked really hard to put into it. The blockers hold, though. Barely, but it’s something in a world of nothing. It’s like a door with a bad lock and something is heavy-breathing on the other side of it.

My pulse stutters once. It stutters hard.

No. No, not now, damn it.

Not in a street with three compound Alphas, one injured rogue Alpha, an unconscious pilot, and Vector possibly lurking from whatever damp hole organized dickheads go into between dramatic appearances.

The rain runs cold down the back of my neck, and my scent shifts. I feel it before anyone reacts. The haggard little split under my skin. Sweetness pushing against chemical bitterness. Fear making everything worse, because fear is a traitorous bitch with no hobbies other than ruining my already fucked-up life.

I tug the bandana higher on my face and keep walking, even though my knee protests every step, making threats it has every right to make. My arm pulses under the wet fabric, just adding to the misery today is bringing.

Pain is fine. Pain is information. Annoying, assholish information, but information regardless.

Fletcher glances over his shoulder. “Problem?”

“Nope,” I answer shortly. He looks up at the rain, and then back at me, and I point a finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t assess me with weather eyes.”

His brow furrows. “Weather eyes?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” I grumble.

“I don’t,” he says.

“Good,” I grumble. “Stay confused.”

Ewan’s mouth twitches. “For what it’s worth, weather eyes sounds kind of serious. I think you might need a clinic or something, mate. Get tested.”

“Walk faster,” Fletcher responds bluntly.

“See? Weather eyes made him grumpy. I hope it’s not contagious,” Ewan sighs dramatically.

“Everything makes him grumpy,” I mutter.

Ewan nods. “True, but the rain gives it a funny kind of texture.”

Xeon glances back from my left, and his gaze catches on me for a breath too long. Not at my face, but at the air around me.

Shit.

My fingers flex around the knife at my side, and Kaito catches that, too. Of course he does. He catches every other fucking thing I do. His gaze drops once, quick and quiet, to the slight hiccup in my step. I smooth it out immediately. Well, I try to. My knee fully disagrees with the performance, sending shooting pain up my thigh like a traitor.

Kaito’s grip tightens on the pilot’s arm, his jaw flexing as if he wants to say something but has chosen, very wisely, to continue enjoying the plain fact that he still has teeth.

Then the wind cuts down the street, cold and wet, and directly against my side. My scent shifts again, a sweet, sharp thread slipping loose under the wet fabric and quickly failing blockers.

Kaito’s head turns slightly. Not toward me, but toward Xeon, who doesn’t react much, but his shoulders still by one careful inch.

Shit.

Kaito notices, but he can’t move. Not really. Not with the pilot sagging between him and Fletcher, and not without making it obvious. So he does the only thing he can do. He adjusts the pilot higher between them, making the movement look more practical than deliberate, and he lets his own scent spill roughly into the rain. Burning wood. Worn flannel. Blood. Alpha. Enough to muddy the air, but not enough to fix it.

My eyes narrow, but Kaito doesn’t look back at me, which is exactly how I know the bastard did it on purpose.