Page 321 of Immune

Ellis called it “good enough to stop whining.”

Both looked equally offended.

The rest of us are learning to take the small victories where we can get them.

Haven Ridge hasn’t really recovered from the Purge Event, as we’ve started calling it. It’s pretending like it has, which is completely different. After all, recovered people don’t whisper behind stacked crates and go quiet when bonded Alphas pass by. Recovered people don’t stare at Dakota’s throat, see three claiming bites, and still wonder if the choice was even hers. Recovered people don’t watch Mercer’s medical room likethe labeled vial of Dakota’s blood she finally allowed him to take might grow roots and start making demands.

The compound has finally learned her name, learned who she is and what her blood might possess, but that doesn’t mean they know her or what her name really means. To most of them, Dakota O’Reilly is still an Immune Omega. A cure and a threat and a miracle they’re all trying not to reach for.

And Dakota isn’t making that easy for ’em.

She walks through Haven Ridge with Maine’s faded hat pulled low, three bites healing on her throat, and a look in her eyes that tells every idiot watching that she belongs to herself before she will ever belong to anyone’s hope she didn’t ask for.

She’s just a woman deciding how much of herself the world gets to survive knowing, and that scares people more than it ought to. Sure does reassure me more than it probably should, though.

I stand across the garage bay with a crate of rifle parts open next to me, pretending to sort through firing pins while I subtly watch her argue with Ellis near the supply shelves.

“What the hell are you even talking about? You said mobile,” Dakota says, throwing her arms in the air like she’s fed up with the conversation. The bond tells me otherwise. The shit is finding enjoyment in winding the medic up, and that makes my lips twitch with a smile I won’t let loose. That’ll give me away.

Ellis takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose before she corrects, “I’m diagnosing you with selective hearing. I said annoying but mobile.”

“Exactly. Mobile,” Dakota pushes, looking around like she’s trying to find the problem knowing damned well it’s her. She’s the fucking problem.

“With restrictions,” Ellis growls, almost sounding like an Alpha.

Dakota slaps a hand over her chest like she’s been shot. “Restrictions? In this economy? Are you out of your mind?”

Ellis stares at her.

Dakota stares at Ellis.

Neither woman blinks.

Ewan leans against the side of the truck close by, arms crossed and looking absolutely giddy in a way that tells me he has absolutely no intention of helping. Kaito is standing next to the open bay doors with his usual murdery statue energy, one hand resting near his knife and stitches finally healing under his shirt. His expression gives nothing away, but I know he’s finding this thing just as funny as Ewan. He’s just better at hiding it.

Xeon isn’t in the garage. Dakota knows it, and I know because her eyes keep flicking toward the door every time someone passes it.

Not obviously, though.

Dakota O’Reilly doesn’t do obvious unless she’s threatening someone, insulting biology’s mother, or pretending she hasn’t grown madly attached to the people currently rearranging their lives around her survival.

But I notice anyway.

Her gaze catches on empty doorways. Her fingers drift to the center of her chest when Xeon’s name comes over the radio. When she sees him across the yard, she looks away too fast, then rubs that same spot like she’s trying to soothe an ache she hasn’t admitted out loud belongs to him.

Ewan notices it too.

Kaito definitely notices.

And neither of ’em says a damn thing. Neither do I.

She has three bonds now.

Ewan, bright and restless.

Kaito, dark and steady.

Me, solid and warm.