Page 116 of Immune

I look at it, then I look at him.

The jackass is staring intently at the ceiling with deep, unearned interest, almost like he’s trying to figure out the number of tiles that were used to fill the entire space.

“Did you just throw water at me?” I ask bluntly.

“What? Me? I’d never,” he answers, almost looking offended enough to be believable.

I narrow my eyes on him. “It hit my boot.”

He shrugs. “Ever considered your boot might be thirsty?”

“We just came out of the rain,” I remind him. “And my boot is very emotionally unavailable.”

“Damn. That’s a shame,” he sighs. “I’m pretty keen on challenges.”

My narrowed eyes turn into a glare, but he continues to look at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen on this side of the apocalypse.

I glance back down at the bottle, only to find it sealed. My throat is hurting enough that I pick it up, and nobody dares utter a thing when I take a drink. Good. Because if someone comments, I will become the biggest problem they have ever seen.

The room beyond the skybridge is some kind of executive suite. Looks like something that used to be expensive but is now completely pointless. Glass walls, black desks, dead plants, leather chairs that have mold crawling up the sides. One office still has curtains. Thick ones, too. Dark gray and dry where the roof has held.

My gaze sticks to them for a long moment.

Fabric.

Walls.

One door.

A desk that could be shoved across the entrance if needed.

I want to pull the curtains down. I want to drag one of the chairs into the corner, strip the dry upholstery from it, and curl up somewhere dim with my knife and Maine’s hat and maybe something that smells like smoke-warm flannel. Hell, my whole body is leaning toward the thought.

I damn near growl at myself.

Absolutely not. We’re not becoming a damp little cave creature because four Alphas are breathing close by and oneof them knows how to say the word “okay” without being a complete bastard.

Fletcher steps past me and drops a folded thermal sheet on the closest desk. It’s silver, dry, and compact.

“For the pilot,” he says without glancing at me.

The pilot is currently on the other side of the fucking room.

I stare at the scarred Alpha, but he doesn’t look back, and I call him a big, fat, filthy liar loudly in my head.

The thermal sheet sits there shining faintly in the gray light, and I ignore it. I’m doing a pretty good job, too… for all of eight seconds until I crack like an egg on a hot pan. A shiver crawls across my spine hard enough to hurt, and I snatch the thermal up with an attitude I can’t shift.

“Still for the pilot,” I mutter.

“Sure thing,” Fletcher replies.

I consider stabbing him with eye contact alone, but thankfully for him, he remains tragically alive.

Xeon opens the door to the adjoining conference room and glances inside. “We can give him five minutes in here. Covered windows. Two exits. Less wind.”

Less wind. Less scent getting loose. Less open air. Privacy.

He doesn’t say any of that.