Page 333 of Immune

“Dakota O’Reilly,” he says.

My blood stops running through my veins altogether, because he uses my name.

Not Omega.

Not girl.

Not asset.

My. Name. They know my name.

“How cute. A fan,” I rasp. “Didn’t know fangirls made it into the apocalypse.”

His head tilts, and it’s a creepy move from him. “You’ve caused quite the disruption.”

“Yeah,” I snort. “You’d be surprised how often I get that. You’re not special.”

“You have no idea what you’re worth,” he says, this villainous monologue starting kind of slow for my liking, even if my stomach churns at his words.

“That’s funny you say that. People keep saying it like that makes them sound less disgusting,” I smart, running my mouth for no good reason.

He reaches into his coat and I throw myself forward so violently the men holding me back curse. The sling bites harshly into me, my shoulder almost tearing out of place. For half a second, my forehead almost connects with his face shield.

Almost.

He doesn’t even flinch, though.

Shit.

The injector he produces is different from the one before. Wider and metal with a yellow band around the chamber. Every single part of my body recoils from it and I snap, “What the fuck is that shit?”

“Insurance,” he says calmly.

I kick out but he shifts out of reach. The men holding me force my arm down but I thrash so hard he loses his grip. I manage to get my fingers around the strap at my throat, so I pull, twist, and almost slip free. Then the fossil presses the injector against the side of my neck.

The bite of the needle is tiny, but the effect is anything but.

Cold floods my bloodstream. Not sleep. Not immediately. This is something worse. It’s a heavy, crawling pressure that rolls through my body and presses down on every single instinct at once. My Omega recoils from it and the bonds flare violently before distorting as if someone has shoved a thick piece of glass between me and the men on the other side.

Ewan’s panic muffles.

Kaito’s rage blurs.

Fletcher’s roar drags long and deep.

I gasp.

No.

No, no, no.

The older guy watches me like I’m confirming something useful to him. Then he says, “Transport dose active.”

Transport. Fucking transport.

The word makes my vision swim. I buck against the hands holding me, but my limbs respond a half second too late. My body is still mine, but the message literally has to crawl through mud to reach it.

A distant explosion shakes the ground.