Page 70 of Immune

For a second, the whole room around me disappears, replaced by the memory of Maine. He stands taller than me, smirking as he drops the cap on my head.

Hide your hair, Kota. You look like you’ll glow in the dark like a firefly.

For that first week, I fucking hated that hat. Hated it with a burning passion I never thought I’d feel again. Then he didn’t come back from his supply run and I started to love it so much that it actually hurts.

Without breathing, I cross the kitchen. One step. Two steps. I pause on the third when Fletcher’s boots shift in the living room. I flatten myself next to the counter just as the scarred Alpha walks into view, appearing in the doorway with his broad shoulders filling way too much of the space. His rifle is in one hand, lowered but ready for anything. His face is turned toward the front door, but not at me.

Definitely not me, because I become nothing. Not still, not silent. Nothing.

He listens for a long moment before turning away, and I move before fear can lock me down and render me stupid and useless. I make it three steps to the table before I reach for the hat, and my hand closes around it as soon as I’m close enough. The moment my fingers touch it, something inside me makes a sound too small to actually escape my throat.

Mine. Maine’s. Home.

I shove it under my jacket, pressing it snugly against my chest, and then I turn. Only to find Earrings watching me.

He stands in the living room near the pilot, half in shadow and gun lowered to his side. He doesn’t raise it, doesn’t shout. Hell, he doesn’t even move. His dark eyes meet mine, full of softness. Not harmless. Never fucking harmless. But soft in a way that makes my panic worse instead of better.

For one heavy, impossible second, neither one of us breathes. Then his gaze drops to where I’m clutching the hat under my jacket, and something passes over his face. Not pity. Worse. Understanding.

Nope. Absolutely not.

I don’t wait around.

I run.

“Wait,” Earrings calls quietly, low enough that it shouldn't chase me but still somehow manages it.

Fletcher curses, and Ewan dramatically blurts, “Oh, bloody hell, she’s in the fucking walls.”

I shoulder through the gap before they can even consider cutting me off, tearing my sleeve on a broken piece of plaster. The first apartment blurs all around me as I run. Laundry closet. Hall. Kitchen. Broken couch. The same depressing rooms I crept through on the way in now turn into an absolute bastard of an obstacle course under my boots, one created from the very depths of hell.

Behind me, boots thunder across the floor.

Fletcher reaches the gap first. I hear it before I see it, the weight of him and the way the floor answers, in the sharp scrape of broken plaster being shoved aside. Ewan is lighter, faster, and swearing under his breath like he’s been massively inconvenienced. Funny, because the fucker shouldn’t have taken my hat if he didn’t want trouble. Earrings moves quieter than the first two, though, which is actually more alarming.

I don’t bother looking back. Looking back is how people end up as cautionary tales told to children to keep them in their beds at night. Instead, I slash through the first apartment quickly before squeezing through the broken closet into the second, my shoulder catching on splintered wood hard enough to send pain scorching down my arm. Something tears, but I couldn’t say if it’s fabric, skin, or my shit-sucking dignity. Could be any of them, honestly.

There’s simply no time to check.

The second apartment still smells like damp carpet and thriving mold. I vault over a toppled coffee table, skid through a patch of rainwater under the broken window that does nothingfor my fucked-up knee, and slam one hand against the wall to stop myself from going down.

Behind me, Fletcher’s voice booms through the rooms. “She’s cutting through the units.”

Fucking A. Of course he sees the route. Of fucking course.

“I don’t remember anyone asking her to be this slippery. I didn’t miss that, right? Right?” Ewan demands, his voice way too close.

I bare my teeth behind the bandana and keep moving.

Third apartment.

Almost there.

The last apartment is darker than the others, curtains still hanging in thick, rotted strips across the living room window. I burst into the room with the appropriate amount of dramatic flair, shoving through the room until I reach the balcony doors.

The glass sticks, because apparently the building has chosen its loyalty, and the betraying fucker has chosen the Alphas chasing me down like I just stole their fountain of youth or some shit.

“Oh, come on. Not today,” I hiss, driving my shoulder into it.