Page 104 of Immune

Knowing means remembering her fist in my shirt, her knuckles pressed against my chest. It means remembering the bandana dragged under her chin, showing me her face for all of two seconds before her mouth was on mine with a rush of anger, fear, and a hunger that had become its very own language. And knowing means there’s no safety net to catch her when she falls or a safe lie to hide behind.

But the taste of her lingers. Rain. Fear. Sweetness that cuts through failing blockers. The sharp scrape of panic. And the softer thing under it all that she would absolutely stab me for even noticing.

Dakota walks ahead of me through the indoor market with her knife held tightly in one hand and her shoulders set like she has the strength to hold the entire ruined world off through spite alone.

Hell, maybe she can. And that right there is part of the problem.

My Alpha doesn’t give a shit that she’s dangerous. He doesn’t care that she’s armed, furious, injured, bone-deep exhausted, and one misplaced word away from bolting into a city full of dead things and men worse than that.

It just knows she kissed me.

She kissed me.

Holy shit, she kissed me.

She grabbed my shirt with trembling fingers, dragged her bandana down, pulled me to her, and for a single, violent second, the world finally made sense in a way it hasn’t made sense since the first scream of a Biter tore through the city years ago.

But then she stopped, so I stopped. And now every single instinct I have is grating at my bones like a thing with claws and fangs.

Stay close. Shield her. Touch her.

Pull her back.

Keep her.

Claim.

I grind my jaw until pain bursts behind my teeth.

No.

The word rattles quietly inside me, because it has to. I mean, my instincts are loud enough to drown out anything weaker.

No.

She’s not something to keep. She isn’t a wound I can press my hand over until the bleeding finally stops. She’s not cargo, a rescued thing, or a frightened Omega waiting for an Alpha to make every decision for her.

She’s Dakota O’Reilly.

Or, at least, I have a feeling she might be.

The other three are still pretending not to know the name, even from the broken syllable the pilot managed before he passed out.

O’R.

It’s not much to most people, but it was enough to make Fletcher go still.

Enough to sharpen Xeon’s eyes.

Enough to make Ewan stop smiling.

Enough to drag my father’s voice out of a box I try not to peer into often.

Dr. Conrad O’Reilly.

I heard that name before I even understood what it meant. Back when my father was still Professor Kanai, back when his work was bond response, Alpha instinct, Omega stress, and all the neat and fancy academic language people used before the world proved there was nothing neat and fancy about it.

He moved us from Japan to the States for that work. For NOVAC research, he said. For opportunity, he said. For the future.