Page 254 of Immune

“He wasn’t,” she says, and that’s worse. Much worse.

Mercer sets his coffee down with slow precision. “Davis has been pushing to make assigned Omega pairings a compound policy since before winter.”

“What kind of policy?” I ask.

Mercer looks over to Hale, but Hale doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. Trying to get any level of information out of that man is like trying to siphon blood from an incredibly stubborn stone.

Valeria answers, though. “Stabilization pairings.”

Something crawls under my skin, and Fletcher’s eyes sharpen as he asks, “The hell does that mean?”

Valeria’s mouth flattens into a line. “The idea that unbonded Omegas inside the compound should be assigned protected Alpha groups before heat instability or outside interest creates conflict.”

I stare at her.

Then I stare at Hale.

Then at Mercer.

The walls tilt sideways, because there it is. Not a shelter, and no safety, but a cage with better lighting.

“You assign Omegas?” I ask bluntly.

Hale’s face hardens. “No official policy has been adopted.”

“That answer fucking reeks of rot,” I snap.

Calmly, Mercer says, “Some on the council believe the collapse proved old social freedoms were luxuries.”

“Luxuries,” I repeat, tasting the word and finding ash on my tongue.

My voice is too quiet now, and Fletcher turns his head toward me. Not with alarm, but ready. He knows the difference, too.

Valeria’s expression is grim as she further explains, “There are people here who think survival justifies structure.”

“No,” I damn near snarl. “They think survival gives them cover.”

The word hits with a punch hard enough that no one argues it, and that is a whole other answer in and of itself.

My hands suddenly feel very cold, but not because I’m scared. It’s because something inside me has grown very still and very far away. I spent six years outside these walls hiding from men who considered my body just another resource. And now I’m inside a clean version of the same fucking greed and hunger, only this one has a council and committees.

That’s just great. Love that for me. Really love that for civilization.

Fletcher’s voice is low next to me as he says, “Kota.”

I look over at him, and he almost says something to me. I see the order form behind his teeth.

Don’t run.

Stay close.

Let me handle it.

All the usual smaller cages decorated with ribbons and good intentions.

But then he stops, swallows it, and tries again. “You’ve got choices. We can walk out of this room. We can go check on Maine. We can find the others. Or we can stay and make Hale explain exactly how many predators he’s letting dress up as policy.”

My chest aches. Badly. Not because of Davis, but because Fletcher remembered. Because he took the outline of a command and snapped it before handing it to me. Options, not orders.