Page 33 of Reckless: Collision

I grind my teeth. “Fine.” The word is a placeholder. A temporary acceptance while my mind runs background processes, looking for weaknesses.

“Fine.” He parrots before turning around almost right into Finn. “Don’t entertain her.” Then he shoves past Finn and back up the staircase.

Finn looks from me to Ryker then back again, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Before he groans and runs back up the steps after his alpha.

I hear the lock turn in the door, echoing all around me with a finality I’m not used to. The sound sends a shiver through my system like bad code corrupting good data.

I close my eyes, willing my heart to chill the fuck out. I’m still in my jammies. I don’t even have shoes on. Nothing but me, myself, and I. And a USB drive burning against my skin like a digital lifeline.

Once I’ve got my breathing under control, I swing around, taking in the space like I’m debugging new software. Looking for exploits. Testing boundaries.

I hate how nice it is, and it immediately makes me want to set it all on fire. Cozy and modern with recessed lighting over a small sectional. All white and grey. Colors I wouldn’t at all choose.

Everything needs color. Preferably jeweled tones that make everything pop. As soon as I can access any kind of tech, I’m buying paint and pillows on their dime.

No. I’m going to escape, not redecorate. Stop thinking about making it home. Stop imagining movie nights on that sectional or curling up with a laptop while rain hits those windows or?—

“Fuck this.” Stomping like a petulant child—because if they’re going to treat me like one, I might as well act like one—I open the bedroom door and groan at how beautiful it is. A four-poster bed. Cozy sheets. And blankets. A chair and a desk and a door that opens outside.

Again, there’s far too much shit in front of the door to get out but...

I’m going to try.

My eyes land on the suitcases of my stuff. Marching over, I grab my suitcase and unzip it, dumping the contents on the floor. I don’t even think. I react.

This is what happens when I’m angry.

I don’t fucking think.

And I know it.

I still can’t control my reactions as I change into black leggings and an oversized sweater. My hands shake as I tuck the USB drive into my bra—my dirty little secret, my only connection to the digital world I’m being denied. The plastic edge digs into my skin like a reminder:you’re not done yet.

Hair pins. I open the other suitcase, finding exactly what I want. A bobby pin. Then I kneel before the door and work the lock like it’s my submissive. Like it’s just another system begging to be broken.

It takes a few tries but I get it. The sound of a lock clicking makes my pussy wet and the breeze of fresh air sends a gush like I’m a bitch in heat. Code isn’t the only thing I know how to break.

Grabbing a beanie, I swing the door open and glare at the stacks of totes. It doesn’t take too much to push them out of the way. Each movement calculated, each sound monitored. This is just another hack—physical instead of digital.

Then I have to fight through a bunch of bikes, which I debate for a minute stealing until I notice the deflated tires. That won’t do. Someone thought this through. Planned for standard escape attempts.

Too bad I’ve never been standard.

There’s a small concrete staircase that I creep up, peering out to the yard. There’s a beautiful pool that I want to swim in, but it’s spring and I need to escape. Need to run. Need to prove I can’t be contained by alpha commands and locked doors and good intentions.

My heart pounds and adrenaline floods my system. I swallow down the bitter taste of it on my tongue as I dart out and run like the hounds of hell are chasing me to the first tree I see.

Because the hounds of hell may as well be Pack Locke.

Chapter 7

Finn

She’s going to run.

The certainty settles into my bones with the same inevitability as my morning anxiety attacks. I don’t need our surveillance system or behavioral algorithms to predict this—not when Ryker just locked her in a basement like some fairy tale princess in need of protection. As if concrete walls and steel locks could contain someone like Cayenne Sterling.

I remove my glasses, pinching the bridge of my nose as I survey the chaos masquerading as our living room. The space looks like a feral pack of alphas decided to play demolition crew—which, considering my packmates, isn’t far from reality. Pizza boxes from last week’s late-night strategy session compete with Ryker’s discarded tactical gear and what appears to be Jinx’s newest collection of throwing knives embedded in the drywall. Theo’s sheet music drifts like autumn leaves across the floor, dotted with my own shameful collection of empty energy drink cans.

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