Page 258 of Immune

“Want me to leave?”

Her eyes drop then. It’s not a no, but it’s not a yes either. The knife in her hand shifts in her grip, though.

So, making my voice softer, I carefully push, “Kota?”

Her eyes come back to mine.

“Do you want me to leave?”

A beat passes, then she shakes her head.

Oh, thank god.

Something in my chest loosens, and so I crouch just outside the doorway, still not entering. “Can I come in and sit?”

She looks at the floor between us like it very well contains a trapdoor, but then she nods again. I step inside slowly, sitting with my back against the opposite wall to her, leaving a good few feet between us.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” I say, making a show of looking around. “Smells like dust and depression. Very posh. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Her eyes flick to the box labeled HOLIDAY DECOR. “Are you judging my hideout?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” I tell her honestly. “I used to live in a damp flat in Cardiff that had mushrooms growing in the bathroom and even I’m offended right now.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Mhm. One even had a name,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow on me.

“What? Don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “Kev was actually a pretty sound guy.”

That does it. Not quite a laugh, but her eyes sharpen with something closer to herself. Her scent reaches me better in the cramped room, and bloody hell, it’s one hell of a task not to react to it.

Wild honey and rain.

An Omega scent mingled with distress, blockers, and the dull edges of arousal from whatever her body is trying to do under all the stress she’s feeling. It’s not heat, or at least not properly. More like a match dragged over stone. Like her body is looking for safety and doesn’t know what to do with the fact that she might have found some.

I keep my hands on my knees as I say, “So, that Davis guy, huh? What a walking sewage leak.”

Dakota blinks.

Then, after a weighted second, she says, “Wow. That’s actually offensive to sewage.”

“You know what, you’re so right,” I agree. “At least sewage has a purpose.”

Her shoulders move with the smallest breath, but it’s still not a laugh. More like a ghost wearing a laugh’s jacket. And maybe its hat. I take that one, too.

I nod at the headphones. “Want a different song?”

“No.”

“Want it louder?”

“No.”

“Want me to be quieter?”

Her pretty hazel eyes darkened by shadows come back to me. “Unfortunately, no.”