TWENTY
DAKOTA
I avoid Kaito with all the dignity, subtlety, and grace of a raccoon falling through a ceiling. Which is to say, none. Absolutely none.
The problem I’m having is not that Kaito kissed me.
Well, technically, if anyone will be filing paperwork with the ruined city department of really shitty decisions, it would note that I actually kissed him.
I grabbed his shirt, dragged my bandana down, yanked him into my personal disaster bubble, and shoved my mouth against his like I’d very recently acquired a brain injury.
Which, honestly, is very possible.
The last few days have included a pharmacy collapse, a Runner in a basement, jumping between roofs, losing Maine’s hat, stealing it back, being tackled by Kaito, looters, Zeds, Vector, a helicopter crash, rain, a failing blocker situation, and the very mind-fucking discovery that my dead father’s research has apparently decided to crawl from its grave and right back into my life with some very ill-timed jazz hands.
A head injury would almost make it cuter.
But Kaito definitely didn’t make it worse, and therein lies the problem.
If he had grabbed me, I could hate him. If he’d growled and pushed and tried to turn one kiss into a claim, I could have put him very neatly into a box with every other Alpha-related threat and nailed the damned thing shut.
Instead, he stopped. Instantly. Hands away, body still, voice low.
Okay.
I hate that word now. I hate it with passion, loyal commitment, and quite possibly a blood oath.
All because he meant it. Because my stop wasn’t a negotiation.
I wasn’t a challenge or a thing he needed convincing of.
I pulled away, and he let me without a fight, or pressure, or wounded male pride that limped around the room like something pathetic that needed applause.
Just space.
Which means I can’t even blame him. It means the blame has to go somewhere else and, unfortunately, I live in my own damned body. And my body, the back-stabbing, treacherous, mutinying little bitch, has decided now is the time to start being the biggest problem it could create.
We leave the roof while the rain is still pouring hard enough to turn the whole city into one giant damp bruise.
The pilot is barely conscious, sagging between Fletcher and Xeon while they move him through the upper levels of what used to be an office building.
Ewan, as usual, takes the back while Kaito stays somewhere behind my right shoulder.
Not close, not far, just… there. Like a splinter I can’t dig out because a part of me keeps worrying I’ll actually miss the pressure of it when it’s gone.
Oh, well, that’s a stupid thought.
Dangerous thoughts. Jesus Christ.
I step over a fallen office chair and immediately hate my knee, the chair, the floor, the weather, and the plain concept of joints in general. Pain shoots up my thigh, quick and white-hot.
Obviously, I keep walking, and my body responds by sending heat slithering under my wet clothes.
It’s not a fever.
It’s worse.
The first wave rolls over my skin in a slow and humiliating crawl, leaving me all too aware of the material sticking to my back, my hair trapped under Maine’s hat, the bandage pulling tight around my arm, and every single Alpha scent pushing into the damp air.
Fletcher’s cedar and leather scent, solid and controlled.
Xeon’s ice and steel, clean enough to cut through rot.
Ewan’s smoke and clove, warm and clear enough that my body notices before my brain can demand that it mind its business.
Kaito’s burning wood and worn flannel scent that now feels familiar enough that I can place it even through the rain, decay, grime, and everything else.
I don’t want to know them that way. I don’t want my body cataloging them like they’ve become useful supplies. Bandages. Knife. Water. Alpha. Exit.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Stairs are blocked below,” Fletcher says from ahead, voice low. “We need another way across.”
I move past him before I can think better of it, because apparently thinking hasn’t exactly been very helpful today. I point through the office maze and say, “This floor links to the next building. Old skybridge, if it’s still even attached.”
Ewan makes a funny little noise behind me. “That last part feels pretty important.”
“Then keep up and experience the suspense,” I mutter.
“Lush,” he drawls. “Structural uncertainty. My favorite genre. Love this for us, team.”
I lead them through the rows of sad desks, overturned filing cabinets, and broken chairs. The carpet squelches under my boots with every step I take. The ceiling tiles sag above us, swollen with rainwater, and the whole place smells like wet paper, mildew, and memorized panic.
Halfway across the room, my steps slow. Not because of my knee, although that’s posing a really big problem right now.
It’s because of the supply closet. It stands to my left, door half open and dark inside.
There’s one entrance, no windows, and shelves are still bolted to the wall.
A stack of old uniforms in plastic wrap are scattered on the floor.
Dry, maybe? Soft, possibly. Enough fabric to line the corner, block the gap under the door, make a space small enough to hold warmth and scent and quiet.
My brain pauses. Then it considers. And approves.
I stare at the closet with wide eyes filled with pure horror.
Oh, god, no.
No, no, no. No thank you.
Those are absolutely not thoughts I’m having. That’s not an urge I’m currently fighting. That’s definitely not my body looking at a damp corporate storage cupboard and deciding it has really good potential as a little panic cave.
I’m not nesting.
I’m simply evaluating secure locations. You know, for tactical reasons. Very normal, almost warrior-like. Very much not an Omega problem wearing a tiny hard hat and taking measurements and noting color schemes.
“Dakota?”
Xeon’s voice comes from up front, and I snap my attention back like a taut elastic band. Everyone has stopped, all looking back at me save for the pilot.
Great.
Perfect.
Apparently I’ve been standing in front of a storage closet like it whispered sweet nothings to me about insulation.
“What?” I bite out, irritated and flustered.
Xeon’s eyes move only once to my... the closet, then away. “Nothing. The hallway splits.”
He doesn’t mention the uniforms, doesn’t mention the way my hand is even on the fucking doorframe, and doesn’t mention that my scent has probably just done something incredibly embarrassing, enough to demand a formal apology to the air. Both verbal and written, no doubt.
He simply points. “Left has more cover. Right is shorter.”
“Left,” I say too quickly.
Fletcher studies the hallway. “Left takes us further from the street.”
“Good. The streets are bitey,” I tell him shortly.
“That a technical assessment?” he questions.
I nod once. “Yup.”
“Left,” he says, and I should be relieved. Instead, irritation flares under my skin because he listened again. Everyone keeps doing that, and it’s starting to become inconvenient.
We move left. The hallway narrows and water drips through cracked plaster, running along the skirting boards in thin streams. The pilot groans once, a wet sound that makes Xeon adjust his grip and mutter something under his breath.
My skin prickles. The air is cooler here, shaded from the broken windows, and my body hates that it helps. The heat under my collar eases slightly, my breathing settling by a fraction.
Xeon chose this route on purpose.
I look at him, but he looks ahead. Of course. It’s privacy disguised as strategy.
I hate smart people.
At the end of the hall, the skybridge is still there.
Well, technically. And that word is doing some heroic work that deserves a badge of honor and a statue built for it.
The glass sides are mostly gone, the metal frame is beyond rusted, and one side sags toward the street like it’s become emotionally tired of being attached to things.
I’ve never related more to anything so much in my life.
Four floors below, Zeds wander through the rain in loose clusters rather than a packed horde, heads twitching toward some distant noise.
Ewan peers around me, muttering, “I’ve seen sturdier pasta.”
“Then don’t lick it,” I mutter back.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Ewan assures.
“Good,” I say. “Plans save lives.”
Fletcher looks at me. “Can it hold?”
I crouch near the threshold, ignoring the way my knee bellows in protest at the movement. The bolts are rusted but still firmly seated. The main supports have turned ugly, but they’re not broken. The sag looks to be from the glass frame rather than the walkway.
So… probably.
A great little word. Probably. It’s like a verbal grenade wearing Crocs.
“One at a time,” I inform him. “Slow. Stay near the center. No dramatic hero stomping.”
Ewan sighs. “Well, there goes my whole personality. I’m staying here.”
Fletcher ignores him, going across first, because apparently being a wall includes testing bridges. He crosses with measured steps, rifle slung over his shoulder, and boots landing carefully on the slick metal.
When the bridge creaks, I stop breathing.
It holds.
Xeon follows with the pilot’s upper half while Fletcher takes his weight from the other side. They move slowly, awkwardly, the pilot’s boots dragging once with a metallic scrape.
A Zed below tilts its face upward. And then another follows.
“Move quieter,” I whisper.
Behind me, Ewan murmurs, “Oh yeah, because dragging an unconscious man over wet metal was our first choice.”
“I will throw you off this bridge,” I warn.
“Quietly?” the cheeky bastard pushes.
“Dramatically,” I assure, and he’s very quick to shut up.