Page 253 of Immune

Davis’s smile returns. “Did he deserve it?”

I shrug, my smile growing colder. “He screamed like he did.”

The hallway outside grows quiet then, and Fletcher’s scent deepens. He’s not touching me or ordering me back, and he’s not claiming the moment from me. But he’s there. I feel him like the weather, a rolling storm at my side.

Davis looks past me to Fletcher. “You going to let her speak for herself?”

Fletcher’s expression doesn’t change an inch. “She already is.”

Something inside me gives a weird little flip. Nothing soft or sweet, but more like recognition maybe. The dangerous kind of recognition.

Davis’s jaw tightens, but Hale cuts in before he can say anything, snapping, “This conversation is over.”

“For now,” Davis partially agrees, and then he steps back, keeping his eyes on me. “You’ll learn. Haven Ridge has survived this long because we stopped pretending like instincts are optional. Unclaimed Omegas cause unrest. Alpha groups fracture. People get hurt. The old world collapsed because everyone thought desire and duty were two separate things.”

“Wow,” I mutter blandly. “That was almost a whole-ass speech. Don’t suppose you practiced that in the mirror, did you? Or maybe to your reflection in puddles?”

His mouth hardens. “Joke while you can.”

Fletcher moves then, just one step. Only one step. It’s enough to bring his shoulder next to mine, not ahead or behind, and Davis’s gaze falls to the space between us. Calculation spreads behind his eyes. I see it move. Possessive men always understand possession before they even consider choice. He sees Fletcher close to me and he writes the completely wrong story. Or maybe he writes the right one just in the wrong font.

He thinks Fletcher is in the way.

What he doesn’t understand is that I put him there.

“I’ll be seeing you around, little Omega,” the asshole says.

The room’s temperature dips drastically, turning cold enough to freeze my feet to the floor.

Little.

Omega.

Two words, a collar made of five syllables, a noose around my throat made of sound.

For one weighted second, no one moves. Then Fletcher speaks, voice as soft as a feather floating through the air. “You won’t be calling her that again.”

Davis smiles, refusing to back down. Not yet, anyway. “You planning to claim that privilege?”

My blood grows loud in my veins, and Hale curses under his breath. Valeria steps forward, and Mercer looks like he’s regretting every professional choice that has led him to this room.

Fletcher’s hands open at his sides, empty and dangerous. “I don’t need to claim a damned thing to know when a man’s breathing wrong near her.”

Davis’s attention swings back to me and I see triumph there. Not because Fletcher threatened him, but because he reacted. Because now Davis knows which pressure points to hit, and that makes my stomach sink. Not with fear, but with understanding.

Predators don’t always attack the locked door. Sometimes they’ll rattle a window loose to see which guard dog will bark first.

And Davis just heard Fletcher. He’s heard me, too. And worse? The fucker likes the sound of it.

“We’ll talk again,” he says.

“No. We won’t,” I refute sharply.

His smile is all teeth when he insists, “Oh, we will.”

Then he turns and leaves with his two shadows falling into step behind him. The door remains open and no one speaks again until his footsteps eventually fade.

Then Hale rounds on Valeria. “Why was he allowed in this wing?”