Page 163 of Immune

“I am.”

My fingers curl in the air and I shake my head only once before I tell him, “I’m not running right now.”

Kaito’s breath changes then, a subtle sound I would have missed if I wasn’t so lasered in on everything around me, including the Alpha before me. It’s enough, though.

“Dakota,” he breathes, and there’s a warning in the way he says my name. Not a stop. Not a go. But a warning like I’m brushing my finger along the edge of a blade that’s been freshly sharpened.

I close that last inch between us, pressing my hand to his chest, making sure to keep away from his wounded side. His heartbeat hits my palm a second later, hard and steady and nowhere near as calm as his face would make me believe.

Good. I like that. Which is a terrible thing to think, but still. I’m glad for it.

With conviction, I tell him, “This is me choosing.”

Then I grip the front of his jacket, lower my bandana, and pull him down toward me.

This kiss isn’t like the first we shared. The first one was all rain and panic and heat and my body making decisions for me before my mind could even consider objecting. But this one is slower. Worse. Because I know exactly what it is I’m doing.

Kaito’s mouth meets mine carefully for half a breath, as if he’s offering me the room to change my mind despite the factthat I’m the one that put us here. It’s that care that almost ruins me completely.

Then my fingers tighten in his jacket, and he makes a low sound against my mouth. It’s not loud, but it’s certainly not controlled enough, and something hot unravels all through my body.

His hand lifts to my side, stops right before he touches me, and then settles lightly at my waist when I don’t pull away. He’s not gripping me, not holding me in place. It’s just contact, like a question mark in the shape of his hand.

I answer by stepping closer, and his body tenses. Pain, maybe. Want, definitely. Could even be both, and I kiss him harder.

Kaito’s restraint fractures by degrees, never enough to scare me, only enough to show me what it’s costing him. His kiss turns deeper, hungrier. His hand spreads at my waist, thumb pressing once through the heavy fabric, and his other hand braces against the chain link instead of grabbing me. Because apparently even while I’m being kissed senseless, the man is fully committed to being heart-crushingly considerate.

Rude.

So incredibly rude.

I slide my hand up his chest to his shoulder, careful despite myself. He notices, because of course he does. His mouth slows and so I nip his lower lip in warning. He exhales roughly but quietly before murmuring, “Careful.”

“I am being careful,” I assure him.

“You’re threatening me with your teeth.”

“I like to call it multitasking,” I mutter.

His forehead dips toward mine, almost touching. His breathing has turned uneven now, but mine is even worse. The air smells like him and me and blood and heat and only just about a hundred awful choices I don’t regret yet.

Yet.

That word always tries to ruin things, so I shove it away harshly. Then I kiss Kaito again before that word can grow fangs and sink them into me.

This time, Kaito lets himself answer. Really answer. His mouth opens under mine, and the sound I make is small enough that I can deny it later but not small enough that he misses it. His hand tightens once at my waist before immediately easing, like his body momentarily forgot the rules before his mind brought him back from the edge.

And I hate how much that matters to me. I hate how much it makes me want more.

My back hits the chain-link fence softly, not because he pushes me, but because I step back and he follows only as far as I pull him. The fence rattles under his braced hand, his body standing close now, all heat and muscle and restraint. So much restraint that I can feel it in the space he intentionally leaves between us.

Fingers twisting in his jacket, I inhale as his scent roughens. Mine spills through the failing blockers, sweet and sharp and impossible to lure back.

Kaito’s eyes open then, and he pulls back half an inch. I hate the loss instantly, so I breathe, “What?”

His gaze runs over my face before he answers. “You’re spiking.”

Embarrassment flares hotly through me, and I mutter, “Look at that, your nose is working perfectly fine.”