Page 101 of Immune

I don’t want quiet protection. I don’t want someone noticing what I need before I even say it out loud. I don’t want someone shielding me without making a leash out of it. That’s an unfair tactic. It’s emotional warfare with a steel spine and excellent posture.

“You think they don’t notice?” I practically hiss.

Kaito’s eyes flick briefly toward the others before he says, “Pretty sure they notice more if I don’t.”

That shuts me the hell up for one whole second, and I consider it a very impressive tragedy.

Then his voice drops lower to say, “The rain is stripping away your masking.”

“Congratulations on having a nose,” I snap.

“I can help,” he offers.

“I didn’t ask for it,” I damn near growl, agitated and frustrated and going absolutely crazy.

“I know,” he says, and the worst part is that he does. He does know. He knows I didn’t ask, he knows I’d rather eat moldy plaster than ask. He knows he’s walking along the edge of a line I’ve drawn with a knife and he’s daring not to put a single toe over it.

I hate him.

But my body doesn’t.

My body, the betraying disaster of a bitch, wants to move closer until burning wood and worn flannel outweigh the damp, the fear, the other Alphas, the old arcade, and the whole fucked-up city outside.

Biology. That’s all this is. Chemistry and really bad fucking timing. A failing blocker and an Alpha who has spent too much time being annoyingly and distractingly decent. Nothing more than that.

Kaito takes a slow, steadying breath before he says, “Dakota.”

My name in his mouth shouldn’t do a damned thing. It shouldn’t, but it does. It slices through the rain and noise and mold and panic.

Behind us, Xeon says something quiet to Fletcher. Ewan shifts away, probably pretending to inspect the hallway, giving us space and acting as though he doesn’t notice anything.

I don’t care.

I care too much.

And both are absolutely horrible options.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

Kaito stills instantly. “Okay.”

Just that. Okay. No argument, no step forward, no reaching. He gives me the word and space at the very same time, and my hand lifts before I’ve decided to even move it.

It’s my bad arm, too. Pain zaps up my arm as my fingers curl into the front of his wet shirt, but I barely feel it over the sudden, horrible thundering of my pulse.

His breath catches, and so does mine.

For a weighted second, neither of us moves. My fist is twisted in his shirt, my knuckles pressed against the hard heat of his chest under the damp fabric. He could touch me, and he wants to. I can see it in the locked tension of his shoulders, the careful stillness of his hands, and the way his pupils have blown wide enough to swallow those dark brown irises.

He doesn’t touch me, though.

And that’s the thing that breaks me.

Not his scent.

Not the rain.

And not my stupid body or the word NOVAC that still haunts the back of my skull.