Page 242 of Immune

Her breathing comes fast between us and her hands tremble once in my hair. Then they still and she confesses, “I want you, Xeon. Not because I’m broken. Not because he came back. And not because I need to forget it all. It’s because I want something soft that doesn’t look at me like I’m teasing the edge of death.”

And that has my control breaking apart quietly. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to show on my face.

Her eyes darken when she sees it, and with a dangerous little whisper, she says, “There you are.”

I kiss her again and this time I’m not careful about it. This time, when her hands tug at my shirt, I let her take it off.Her palms skim my chest, my shoulders, and my back. There’s nothing timid or tentative about it. She’s all curiosity and hunger as she maps scars without asking about them, and I think I love her a little for the silence.

I remove her jacket after that. Her shirt quickly follows when she raises her arms, leaving her bare under the grow lights with her pale hair loose, vitiligo bright over her pretty olive skin, and bruises and old scars etched into her skin like messages the world has never been invited to read before.

She lifts her chin with a dare, and I look.

Not pitying.

Not flinching.

Not turning her body into some kind of tragedy.

Want lashes through me, low and consuming, and I tell her, “You’re beautiful.”

Her eyes narrow. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a woman with a knife close by.”

“You’re also armed,” I amend.

“That’s more like it.”

I smile against her throat, and that undoes her way more than the compliment. Her breath stutters when my mouth brushes her skin. Neck. Shoulder. Collarbone. I kiss every single place she lets me touch, and when I find the edge of a pale patch over her ribs, I feel her go still.

I pause but her fingers tighten in my hair with a whispered, “Don’t stop.”

So I don’t. I kiss that pale patch, but not differently. It’s the same pressure, the same heat, and the same burning want that scalds under my skin.

Dakota’s head tips back and the sound she makes is quiet enough that someone else might have missed it. I don’t. I’m going to remember that sound until the day I die.

When I stand next, her hands reach for my belt, and mine cover hers. “Dakota.”

She huffs a little breath before she says, “If you ask me if I’m sure one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“I was just going to say there’s no bite tonight unless you ask for one,” I tell her, and the words make her still.

She looks at me then. Really looks at me.

There are rules in our bodies that are far older than any language. Alpha. Omega. Want. Claim. Need dressed up as destiny by people who enjoy cages so long as they appear ceremonial. I want my mouth on her throat. I want my teeth in her skin. I want to knot her so badly that my control is rapidly growing thin around the edges. But wanting is not permission.

Her gaze drops between us, then lifts again, bright with understanding.

“No bite,” she says.

“No bite,” I agree easily.

Her fingers tighten around my belt. “And your knot?”

The words are quiet, but they don’t shake even once. My breath leaves me very carefully as I tell her, “Only if you want it.”

Her mouth twists. “That’s not always how bodies work.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”

Because an Omega lock can happen without permission from pride, logic, or fear. Biology is an ancient language with really bad manners. Her body can pull mine deeper, hold me there, and make leaving impossible until the knot goes down.