Page 103 of Immune

“Okay,” he says.

“Stop saying okay,” I growl.

“Okay.”

I glare at him, and something almost like humor fills his eyes. For one brief, outlandish second, I want to kiss him again.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I turn away so fast that my wet braid tugs under Maine’s hat. My hands shake as I adjust the brim, then my bandana, then the strap of my backpack, and then the knife at my side. They’re useful movements. Practical. Movements that say nothing just happened except maybe a brief shared psychological episode caused by rain and poor ventilation.

Yeah. That’s it.

Ewan clears his throat from somewhere behind me, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I mutter, “I will not hesitate to remove each of your teeth individually.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” he argues, outraged.

“You didn’t have to,” I comment flatly. “I’m simply preventing future crimes.”

“Oh. Very proactive of you,” he says, like it’s totally reasonable.

“Ewan,” Fletcher says, trying to rein in the Welshman as if it’s even possible. Something tells me it’s not, and that’s a fucking problem.

“Right,” he answers shortly. “Teeth. Kind of like them. Shutting up now.”

Xeon’s voice comes from the floor near the pilot. “We need to keep moving. He’s getting worse.”

Oh, good. Movement. Movement I can do. Movement doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t taste like burning wood and restraint. It doesn’t look at me like my stop is a law that needs obeying.

I step toward the market entrance, knife in hand and pulse still doing its very best to kick its way out of my throat. My voice is rough but steady when I say, “Roof access is through the staff stairwell. We cross the market fast. Avoid the middle aisle, because there’s glass there. The water hides it.”

Fletcher nods once. “Lead the way.”

I expect the words to scrape at my already frayed nerves, but they don’t. Maybe because he says it more like acknowledgement rather than a command. Maybe because my brain is officially short-circuiting. Maybe because Kaito is behind me, silent and careful and not touching the place I can still somehow feel him.

I walk first, because that’s what I do.

I don’t look back at Kaito. Not even once. Except maybe in the reflection of a broken arcade machine as we pass.

But that doesn’t count.

Obviously.

NINETEEN

KAITO

I can still taste her.

Of course, I suspected.

Back when she was still just my Stranger, all sharp eyes and hidden scent and a voice roughened into something that didn’t fit. Back when she dragged me through pain, stitched me up, threatened me countless times, vanished before dawn, and made every single instinct I have turn its head.

I suspected she was a girl.

I definitely suspected she was an Omega.

But knowing is completely different.