Page 216 of Immune

Hale turns on him. “Doctor.”

“If that’s M-7 coming in, she has every right to know.”

She.

The word lands way lighter than Fletcher’s slip did, because Hale’s radio is still hissing and half the room is still turned toward the alarm, but I hear it.

So does Fletcher.

So does Xeon.

Dakota doesn’t react, but that’s exactly how I know she heard it, too.

Hale’s eyes cut briefly to her, then to Mercer, then to the file still open on the table. Suspicion starts to gather behind his stare. Not certainty, not yet. But suspicion is merely a seed. And men like Hale water things without even realizing it.

Valeria punches in a code before the argument can turn nuclear, and the door releases with a clean, mechanical click. Dakota is through it before anyone can even decide whether they’re allowing her to go or simply failing to stop her.

I follow after her, because of course I do.

My side pulls hard with the movement, stitches or tape or whatever the hell the red-haired medic used dragging against raw skin. Pain bursts hot under my ribs, but I ignore it, because I am exceptionally talented in the art of making poor decisions look intentional.

Fletcher falls in on Dakota’s left, not in front, though. Never in front, not anymore. Xeon takes the right without crowding her, and Ewan stays half a step behind, close enough to speak into her ear if she needs the world made into a joke she can tolerate.

I take the rear, because someone has to watch what follows. And because I understand something the others might not yet. Not better, not more, just differently.

I know what it is to have a father become a shadow in every single hallway I walk down.

The science wing tightens around us as we move deeper into it. The walls are too bright, the doors are too thick, and labels appear on every glass panel we pass.

ARCHIVE STORAGE.

SERUM STABILITY.

REACTIVE MARKER ANALYSIS.

QUARANTINE OBSERVATION.

Dakota’s shoulders draw in tighter and tighter with every word, but she doesn't ask what they mean, and that might just be the most terrifying thing. Her father’s name is inside these walls. Her brother’s name is written inside a folder. Her scent is in the air, wild honey and rain sharpened until every Alpha instinct in me wants to find the closest threat and remove it from the world.

I don’t, because wanting isn’t permission and permission isn’t ownership. The lesson sits under my skin like sutures that are still healing.

Mercer walks quickly for a man who looks like the last full night’s sleep abandoned him during the last years before the collapse of civilization. He catches up on Dakota’s other side, while Valeria keeps pace with him, the pair arguing in low voices while Hale follows with a guard at either side.

“West gate is not where M-7 should come through,” Hale says.

“No,” Mercer agrees.

“Then either the relay failed, or someone has redirected them,” Hale adds.

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t concern you?”

Mercer gives him a look over his shoulder. “Everything concerns me. I’m having a bit of a varied morning.”

Ewan mutters, “I like him.”

Dakota says nothing.