FORTY
KAITO
Mercer doesn’t answer me.
For a few weighted seconds, no one does.
The hallway is too quiet for the amount of blood in it.
Bodies are littered on the floor. Guards with weapons lowered but not far enough.
Valeria barking clipped orders at people who look like they might vomit into their own boots.
Fletcher keeping Maine from lunging through broken glass to get to his sister.
Xeon standing between Dakota and the closest guard without uttering a single word.
And Dakota.
She’s in Ewan’s arms, coated in blood, and shaking so hard I can see it from where I’m standing.
She’s not crying.
She’s not screaming.
She’s not collapsing into Ewan’s arms.
That would have been easier to witness. Instead, she’s standing there like her body finally came back without asking the rest of her to follow.
Ewan holds her with one arm around her back and the other pressed against his side. He’s pale. Too pale. The shock baton got him real good, but he doesn’t seem to know that. Either that, or he knows but he just doesn’t give a shit.
Because his eyes are on Dakota.
Only Dakota.
Good.
Mercer finally pulls in a breath before he says, “We need to get her to medical.”
Dakota flinches. It’s a small and fast little action, almost nothing at all, but I catch it and my jaw locks.
“No,” I say.
Mercer looks over at me. “Kaito—”
“No.”
“She needs to be checked over.”
“What she needs is for people to stop talking about her like she’s nothing more than a paperweight sat on a table,” I argue without raising my voice, because that seems to have a better effect than if I shouted.
Mercer’s mouth shuts just as Dakota’s fingers curl tightly in Ewan’s shirt. There’s blood under her nails, blood on the backs of her hands, and blood drying on her wrists. She looks down at it and her breathing changes.
“I need it off,” she says, her voice barely even there.
Ewan’s face tightens. “Kota.”
“I need it off,” she repeats, still weak-voiced and trembling.
Maine jerks against Fletcher’s hold. “Then get her somewhere with water, for fuck’s sake. Why are we all just standing here?”
“Because half the room is armed,” Fletcher snaps. “And the other half is stupid.”
Valeria turns on the guards and finally says, “Weapons away. All of them. Now.”
This time, they move faster.
That’s better. It’s still not good enough, but it’ll do for now.
Dakota continues to stare at her hands like they belong to someone else, and that’s what makes me move.
I step closer slowly. The healing wound near my ribs pulls under the fresh stitches, sharp enough to notice but not sharp enough to stop me.
Ewan sees me first. His grip changes, not tighter, just aware. The very clear and new bond between them is fresh in the air, smoke and clove wrapped tightly around wild honey and rain like a warning.
I stop only three feet away, but Dakota doesn’t look up. So, quietly, I say, “Dakota.”
Her eyes lift from her hands, and it’s that look in them that sucker punches me harder than the blood. She’s not afraid of Davis, because that bastard is dead and she knows that. She’s not even sorry in the way people expect women to be sorry after saving themselves.
I can see that, too.
She’s scared because something inside her had the balls to move without her permission. And I know that fear. I’ve lived with it long enough to recognize the shape and color.
“I’m going to take you somewhere quiet,” I tell her carefully.
Her mouth twitches, but it’s not with a smile. “Are you asking?”
“Yup,” I answer.
“Sounded like you were telling.”
“Semantics.”
For one second, a spark of her comes back. Mean, tired, and all hers. Then it flickers out just as quickly as it came, and she glances down at the blood on her hands again before muttering with a muted devastation only those who know her would catch, “I don’t know if I’m safe.”
Ewan makes a broken sound and Fletcher grows still. Maine looks like someone just took a dagger to his chest, and I keep my eyes on Dakota.
“Then we find out,” I declare.
Her eyebrows pull together. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” I say, “that I’m not going to lie to you.”
“That’s your comfort plan?”
“Yup.”
“That’s a really shitty plan.”
“You’ve always thought my plans are shitty. Remember the roof?” I remind her.
Her stare sharpens at that, at the memory of me launching myself across a roof and needing saving again. “You’re supposed to make me feel better.”
“Yeah, maybe. But I think helping you feel real is a better idea.”
That collides into her a little harder than a joke would have. Her mouth closes and for a second, the empty look in her eyes splits apart enough for anger to finally bubble through.
There we go.
Anger is still hers.
I hold my hand out to her, not close enough to make her take it. Just… there. She looks at it for a very long moment, and then she pulls away from Ewan slowly. He lets her go even though it looks like it fucks something up inside him to do it, but it matters that he did it.
Dakota sways once, and Ewan starts to reach for her. Then he stops himself so hard I see it cost him. “I’m right here.”
“I know,” she says, her voice cracking on the second word.
I keep my hand out toward her, and she looks at me like she hates needing anything.
I’m so used to that look now that it doesn’t faze me.
What does faze me is the way she slides her bloody fingers into my hand, because every single instinct I have suddenly wants to close around her. Hold her. Lift her. Get her out.
Obviously, I don’t do any of that. I only curl my fingers around hers just enough to keep contact. She’s not steady, no, but that’s not the same as helpless.
I look over at Valeria, telling her, “No one follows unless she asks.”
Mercer steps forward. “I need—”
“You need to wait.”
His face tightens. “If NOVAC triggered—”
Dakota jerks and I turn my head slow enough that Mercer stops talking. Smart man.
“Not in the hallway,” I mutter.
Valeria nods once. “Take her. I’ll hold everyone back. Hale will likely appear soon, so get her gone before he gets here.”
Maine shoves against Fletcher’s arm. “I’m going with her.”
Dakota looks over at him and whatever is left of her face softens so fast that it actually hurts to watch. “Maine.”
“No,” he demands. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like Mom when she was trying to make me calm down.”
Dakota’s mouth trembles and Fletcher’s hold on Maine loosens only slightly. He doesn’t let go, though. Probably for the best, especially when Dakota tells her brother, “I just need a minute.”
Maine’s jaw clenches before he looks over at me. There’s a warning in those pale eyes, and I respect it. I would have been disappointed if there wasn’t one.
“If she asks for you,” I tell him, “I’ll come get you myself.”
“You better.”
I nod, and Dakota squeezes my hand once. Not in thanks, and not in forgiveness. It’s a signal to move that I catch quickly, so I do. I lead her down the hall, past blood and guards and the dead man who thought he had the right to call her ruined.
Dakota doesn’t look back.
I do.
Only once, catching Ewan still watching her. He’s still pale, still hurt, and furious. But he’s not afraid of her. None of them are afraid of her, and that’s the only damned thing that keeps my temper bottled before it becomes a problem.
The room I take Dakota to isn’t mine. It’s an old training room off the west hallway, not used much now from the looks of things.
Rubber mats are on the floor, a single bench is pressed against the wall, and there’s a sink in the corner for rinsing first and blood off after drills.
There aren’t any windows, but there are two exits and they’re both visible.
There’s no bed, either. That’s good. A bedroom would feel all kinds of wrong right now, but medical would be worse. This place doesn’t have enough softness to even fake safety. Only space, edges, and choices.
I check both doors, the storage closet, the ceiling vent, and the corners. All the while, Dakota stands in the middle of the mat and watches me closely.
“You expecting the bogeyman or something?”
“Yup.”
She blinks.
“I was being sarcastic,” she points out.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her, and her mouth closes with a small clack of her teeth.
I lock the main door, then I drag the bench in front of it, not because it would stop a determined Alpha. Because it would slow him down, and sometimes slow is enough to stay alive instead of becoming dead.
Dakota watches every movement without another single word.
Good.
Let her see what I’m doing.
Let her see there are still exits.
Let her see my hands.
Let her see I’m not making decisions behind her back.
When I turn back, she’s staring at her palms again. The blood has already started to dry dark.
“I can feel it,” she says.
“The blood?”
“No,” she answers quietly, her throat working around a harsh swallow.
I wait.
She looks up at me when I don’t respond, and she says, “The thing.”
My chest tightens. “What thing?”
Her laugh comes out ragged and thin. “Don’t make me say it like I even know what the hell I’m talking about.”
“I’m not,” I tell her.
“Yes, you are,” she contradicts. “You do this thing where you sound all calm and reasonable and shit, and it makes people feel like they have to organize their thoughts before you’ll let them fall apart.”
“That’s not why I do it.”
“Then why?”
“Because,” I start, shrugging a shoulder. “If I don’t sound calm, I might start breaking things.”
She stares at me then, and I watch as my words land where they’re supposed to. That’s good, because she should know. I’m not steady because I don’t have violence tucked away inside me. I’m steady because I learned early on what happens when violence claims the reins.
Dakota looks down at her hands again. “It moved inside me. When he touched me. Like something suddenly woke up.”
I don’t say anything.
“I don’t even mean instinct,” she adds. “I know instinct. I know fear and adrenaline. This wasn’t that.”
“I know.”
Her head snaps up. “Do you?”
“Yup.”
Her eyes narrow. “Watch it.”
“What?”