Page 367 of Immune

“You reek,” she whispers.

Fletcher goes with a twitching lip and a shake of his head.

Kaito stays quiet near the window, still and watchful. He only moves when Dakota’s breathing changes, when pain creases her face, when her fingers twitch toward the knife Ellisconfiscated and placed very deliberately on the tray within her sight but out of immediate stabbing range.

Ewan sits on the floor with his cracked headphones in his lap, doing his best to fix them with wire, tape, stubbornness, and several insults muttered in Welsh.

I stay right beside the bed. Not touching unless Dakota reaches first but not moving far enough that she has to look for me.

At some point, just after dawn, she opens her eyes. Pale hazel dulled with pain, but still hers.

She looks at me.

“Still here?” she asks with a hushed voice still riddled with pain and exhaustion.

“Still here,” I tell her.

Her gaze drifts over my face, slow and heavy. “Good.”

Then she falls asleep again.

One word and it sits under my ribs all day.

By evening, she’s awake enough to eat toast, argue with Ellis about bland food while spouting off all the reasons why it should be illegal before Ellis walks away from her mid-list, and threaten Mercer with a pillow when he mentions another blood draw.

“You already got one vial from me, man. What more do you want, you goddamn vampire?” she says, voice rough.

Mercer lifts both hands. “I wasn’t even asking.”

“You thought it so loudly that I heard it. Damn leech,” she counters, though there’s no bite in her words.

Mercer’s lips twitch. “I assure you, my thoughts were medically appropriate.”

Ellis snorts from the counter. “His thoughts are literally just paperwork with eyebrows.”

Dakota points weakly at her. “Wall Ghoul gets it. She just does.”

Ellis looks almost pleased.

Almost.

The next morning, Dakota stands long enough to wash Vector from her skin. No one helps until she asks and it takes almost an hour.

Kaito waits outside the washroom door. Fletcher waits at the end of the hallway. Ewan sits against the opposite wall, headphones around his neck and one hand drumming a silent rhythm against his knee. Maine paces until Dakota opens the door and tells him he’s making the floor nervous and to sit the fuck down.

When she comes out, her hair is wet and loose down her back, white-blonde strands darkened by water. The bruises around her wrists still don’t look too pretty, and neither do the marks around her throat. The cut near her brow has been cleaned, her knee and arm have been wrapped, and there’s finally some color in her face again. Not much, but it’s more than yesterday.

She still looks tired. And furious. And beautifully alive.

She looks at all of us, and then says, “If anyone even considers telling me I look better, I’ll bite you. Oh, will I bite you.”

Ewan raises a finger from where he sits on the floor. “I feel like it’s worth noting that some of us might not find that as discouraging as you’d think.”

Dakota stares at him.

He lowers the finger. “Right. Read the room. Got it. That’s on me.”

I almost smile.