Page 362 of Immune

“Don’t give him a reaction,” Kaito says quietly. “He’s taken enough.”

Maine shakes, and then stops. Just barely.

Hale straightens. “This is absurd.”

I smile, but it doesn’t feel nice on my face. “Oh, lush. Strong start.”

Valeria stands beside him, rifle lowered but ready. “Commander Aaron Hale, you are accused of conspiring with an external hostile group, compromising compound security, facilitating the abduction of Dakota O’Reilly, unauthorized handling of NOVAC cargo, and endangerment of Haven Ridge residents.”

His mouth thins. “You have no understanding of what I was trying to prevent.”

Dakota laughs. It’s hoarse and painful and perfect.

Everyone looks over at her and she lifts her head.

“What?” she rasps. “You were trying to prevent me having choices?”

Hale’s eyes settle on her. “I was trying to prevent one pack from making a decision for the whole species.”

Fletcher’s scent flares hard enough that several step back. Dakota raises one hand without looking at him. Wait. So Fletcher waits. That only makes the crowd watch that little bit harder.

Hale notices, too. His face tightens and he practically spits, “Looks like she has you trained.”

“No,” Dakota argues. “They listen. I can see how that would confuse you.”

A few people inhale sharply and I grin despite the fear still crawling around inside me.

That’s our girl.

Hale’s voice hardens. “Humanity is dying. Omegas are almost gone. NOVAC wasn’t born from evil. It was born from desperation. From good intentions. From the knowledge that without drastic action, we would lose any chance at a future.”

Mercer looks sick and Dakota’s face empties. Not in the way NOVAC empties it, but more out of grief.

“Good intentions made the dead,” she reminds the stupid prick.

The courtyard goes silent but the ponce doesn’t back down. “Science failed. That doesn’t mean the goal was wrong.”

“The goal was ownership.”

“The goal was survival.”

“You keep using those words like they’re one and the same,” Dakota rasps, her lip tugging up in the smallest snarl.

His expression sharpens. “Because sometimes they are.”

“No,” Dakota says.

It’s just one word, small and unsteady, but it cuts him cleanly.

“No,” she says again, stronger this time. “They’re not the same. Not even close. Survival is food. Medicine. Shelter. Community. People choosing to help one another even when the world has turned its back on them.”

Her breath catches and I take a step closer. She shakes her head once, telling me not yet.

I stop.

Her fingers tighten around Maine’s as he rests it on her arm, still tucking her close to his side. With a little more confidence, she continues. “Ownership is what men call survival when they want the benefits without asking for permission.”

A sound moves through the crowd. Not a loud sound and not soft either. Recognition, maybe. The kind that has nowhere comfortable to go.