Page 124 of Immune

“Very secure,” Dakota comments.

“Thank you,” Ewan replies. “I was top of my class in the incredibly prestigious Academy of That’ll Fucking Do.”

A Rot slams into the door and the mop handle bends precariously.

Ewan clears his throat. “It was the accelerated programme and I was the only student.”

Dakota crosses the room to the far door with a shake of her head, but her steps turn uneven. Heat and pain are catching up to her, and she’s forced to press a hand to the wall next to the door, breathing through her nose.

I stand near the workbench, offering her the width of the room. Then, quietly, I say, “Dakota.”

Her shoulders tighten right before she snaps, “I know, okay? I’m slow, I’m injured, and I smell like every single baddecision wearing tactical gear. Can we skip the inspirational speech?”

I pause for a beat before telling her, “I was just going to tell you your knife sheath is caught on the cabinet handle.”

She looks down.

It is.

For one second, she only stares at it. Then she mutters, “I knew that.”

“I assumed,” I assure, watching as she frees it with a sharp tug.

Her face is flushed with embarrassment and anger again, scared under both. Softness would be easy to misuse here, and comfort could quickly turn into pressure if I’m not careful. So, I don’t offer her comfort. Instead, I offer her information. “The men behind us are Vector. They knew the pilot was alive, and they knew he was hurt. They expected him to use upper routes.”

Sure enough, her breathing steadies only by a fraction. A problem to solve is easier for her to handle than kindness.

“They’ll know your compound routes,” she says.

“Some of them,” I confirm.

“Then you have a leak,” she points out.

“Maybe.”

“No,” she argues. “Not maybe. Definitely.”

I nod once. “Probably.”

She glances at me. “Look at that. That was almost a disagreement. I’m proud of you.”

“This didn’t seem like the right moment to disappoint you,” I tell her.

She huffs. Barely. It’s a sound too small to even consider calling it amusement, but it’s definitely not nothing.

Just then, the mop handle bends and cracks. Kaito steps forward, but his face tightens with pain. Fletcher sees it, and Fletcher throws another warning at him, “Don’t.”

“I can hold it,” Kaito assures.

“How about you just try to stay upright?” Fletcher counters.

Dakota points her knife at Fletcher, grumbling, “I hate that I agree with him.”

Kaito looks at her. “So do I.”

She looks away too fast, but I catch it. The pull. Not simple attraction, and not only scent. There’s something more complicated and much more dangerous for her playing on the sidelines that she doesn’t want to acknowledge and is fighting tooth and nail to keep it that way. She trusts Kaito in ways she doesn’t even have a language for yet.

She doesn’t trust me, and that’s okay. Trust shouldn’t build quickly in a world like this. When it does, it’s usually bait.