Page 88 of Immune

“Fine,” Fletcher says, nodding only once.

“Don’t sound so relieved, Scar,” I mutter, smirking under my bandana with an annoyance I feel all the way to my bones. This day just turned into one clusterfuck after another, and my mood is in the pan as the aftermath.

“Wasn’t smug,” he counters.

“You’re breathing smugly,” I argue, because apparently picking a fight is my defense mechanism that has been fully triggered now that I’m stuck in here with four Alphas and a useless pilot.

Ewan points a finger at Fletcher. “Oh my god, he actually does that.”

Fletcher looks at him. “You want first watch?”

Ewan’s finger folds into his fist before he lowers it slowly. “You know what, I think my talents are probably better suited elsewhere, but thank you for asking.”

“First watch, then,” Fletcher instructs shortly.

With a pitiful sigh, Ewan nods like he’s been sent to slaughter and grumbles, “Diabolical, mate. Brutal, in fact. Spiritually oppressive. Massively unfair.”

“Second watch,” Xeon calls gently, a faint amusement lining his voice.

“I’ll take third,” Kaito offers.

“No,” I blurt with a frown in his direction. He looks over at me and I drop my eyes to glare at his side. “You’ll take sleep. Your stitches are literally one cough away from forming a union.”

Ewan lifts his eyebrows. “Damn. The stitches are unionizing?”

“Absolutely,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Man, good for them,” Ewan says. “I’ve been saying for years how important workers’ rights are. Power to the stitches.”

Kaito’s face does that twitching thing again, and I point my knife at him, hand steady despite my predicament. “You even think of smiling and I’ll tear them out myself.”

In an instant, his face smooths out. “Heard loud and clear.”

Fletcher looks between us like he’s trying to solve the world's most confusing puzzle that wields a knife, bleeds sarcasm, and possesses too many hormonal implications. And honestly, good luck to him. I’ve lived with myself for twenty-two years and I’m still yet to solve myself.

The room settles into an uneasy quiet after that. Not silence, because that would be too generous. There’s the drip of pipes, the distant groan of Zeds, and the occasional slam from somewhere far enough away that it doesn’t mean immediate death but close enough to keep my nerves sitting upright. The pilot’s breathing has turned wet and shallow and Xeon murmurs something under his breath as he works. Ewan checks the door, the vent, then paces exactly four steps before Fletcher tells him to stop moving.

Kaito slides down the wall close to the door, still between me and the danger without blocking my exit. I look at the floor instead of him, telling myself it’s only biology. That’s all. My body is only responding because there are four Alphas in the room. Because I’m tired, injured, running low on blockers, andmy heat has been simmering under my skin like an inconvenient little fucker with a calendar. It has nothing to do with Kaito’s careful hands, Fletcher’s pillar-like steadiness, Xeon’s warmth, or the way Ewan’s stupid voice makes the room feel less likely to suffocate me.

It’s nothing. Just biology. Chemistry. Instinct. The ancient, stupidest part of me sniffing around danger and trying to claim it as shelter.

I press Maine’s hat tighter to my chest and close my eyes for exactly one second, whispering inside my own skull, Don’t be stupid, Kota. The universe, the consistent bitch that she is, answers with Kaito’s quiet voice from across the room. “Try to rest.”

My eyes snap open, landing on him just as words come flying out of my mouth. “I hope you fall into a drain.”

His mouth softens again, not quite a smile but close enough to one that I know it’s there, and he mutters, “Fair.”

That word again. I hate that fucking word. I hate this room. I hate every Alpha in it. And, as the night finally falls, full of teeth and smoke and men with red-covered lights, what I hate most of all is that I don’t feel alone anymore. Not completely. Not in the way I should.

And not the way that keeps me alive.

SEVENTEEN

DAKOTA

I don’t sleep, because that’s something I would consider stupid.

Sleeping in a locked utility room with four Alphas, one pilot clinging to life, a door that keeps making creepy settling sounds, and the distant groans of Zeds somewhere in the bones of the building feels like the kind of decision that gets people turned into cautionary tales.