Page 45 of Reckless: Collision

Not that I’m intimidated. Turned on? Absolutely.

The heat between my thighs hasn’t faded since Jinx pinned me to the concrete, his fractured violence transforming into something almost tender. The memory draws his attention, those predator eyes catching mine with a knowing gleam that makes me want to test just how feral he can get.

The pack moves with an unconscious synchronicity that makes my skin prickle with alien recognition—when Ryker shifts left, Finn automatically adjusts right without even looking; when Theo reaches for something, Jinx’s hand is already extending to pass it. Their bodies maintain precise distances like satellites in stable orbit, communicating through a language of microexpressions and subtle scent changes my beta senses can only partially decode. I stand apart, watching the invisiblecurrents that flow between them like magnetic fields I can almost see but can’t fully comprehend—and I wonder what happens when you introduce an unstable element into a perfectly balanced chemical reaction.

My stomach growls, breaking the tension that’s been building since the gatehouse. “So, what’s for dinner?”

They freeze mid-motion like someone hit pause on a nature documentary—Ryker’s foot suspended above the next step, Jinx’s hand arrested in its journey toward his knife, Finn’s glasses caught halfway up his nose. Their gazes ping-pong between each other in a silent communication system refined over years: widened eyes from Finn, a microscopic head shake from Ryker, Jinx’s almost imperceptible shrug. The millisecond-long exchange concludes with their collective attention swiveling back to me in perfect unison, their body language shifting from deadly predators to awkward bachelors so quickly it gives me conversational whiplash.

“Ah, well, see...” Theo trails off, running his thumb across his bottom lip in a way that shouldn’t be legal.

Finn adjusts his glasses. “What would you like us to order?”

“No.” Jinx’s pupils dilate as he steps toward me, all coiled tension and protective instinct. “No one enters.”

Something in my chest tightens at their awkward concern. These lethal men who can probably kill in a hundred different ways, brought low by the concept of cooking dinner. It’s almost endearing, in a completely dysfunctional way.

“Not even two hours here,” I mutter, shouldering past them into the house. “I’ll fucking cook. Please tell me you at least have ingredients.”

The kitchen that greets me is a travesty. State-of-the-art appliances covered in takeout containers, granite counters disappearing under what looks like weeks of bachelor living.It’s exactly what I should expect from a pack of alpha special operators and their artistically inclined omega.

“I’ll clean.” Finn sets his tablet on the counter, and for a moment, the tech-starved part of my brain calculates exactly how fast I could hack it. But Ryker watches me like he can read the code running through my head, so I just flash him my sweetest smile and head for the fridge.

Time to see what other surprises this pack has in store.

I open the fridge to a surprising abundance. For men who apparently live on takeout, they keep a well-stocked kitchen. Not that they seem to know what to do with any of it. The chaos of their living space extends into the fridge—premium ingredients tossed in haphazardly like they’re playing refrigerator Tetris.

“Can someone play music?” I ask, burying my head deeper into the cold as I consider my options. Chicken and dumplings? Maybe Korean fire chicken with cheese? Something about feeding these dangerous men makes me want to create chaos on a plate.

“On it,” Theo says, his voice oddly breathless.

The first notes of piano filter through the kitchen, and I nearly drop the cheese I’m holding. I turn to find Theo settled at a piano I hadn’t noticed before, tucked into what appears to be an indoor greenhouse. The moonlight streams through glass panels overhead, casting him in an ethereal glow that stops my breath.

He doesn’t just play—each finger caresses the keys as though they’re living skin, coaxing sounds that bypass my ears and strike directly at something primal in my chest. His eyes half-close, lashes casting shadows across cheekbones as his body sways slightly, each movement rippling through his muscles like water over stones.

The room’s temperature seems to fluctuate with the melody—warming during crescendos, cooling in the quiet spacesbetween notes. Around me, all movement ceases—Finn’s cloth frozen mid-wipe, Ryker’s breath suspended between inhale and exhale, Jinx’s usually restless body gone completely still as the music physically rewires our nervous systems.

I’ve always understood, intellectually, why omegas are considered nature’s perfect creation.

But watching Theo in his element, I finally understand what poets mean about beauty hurting. His eyelashes cast shadows across sharp cheekbones as his smile curves with private joy, and something in my chest physically constricts—an ache that spreads outward like ripples in still water. My skin pebbles despite the kitchen’s warmth, tiny hairs rising along my arms as notes penetrate deeper than sound should travel, reaching places inside me that have never known touch. Even with my dulled beta senses, I feel his omega nature calling to something primal in me, something that recognizes perfection and instinctively yearns toward it like plants seeking sunlight.

And that’s exactly why I have to look away.

Because I can see myself fitting here. Can see Theo being my omega, can imagine belonging to this pack of beautiful disasters. But I barely catch his scent—vanilla and jasmine so faint it might as well be a dream. I’ve never felt less than for being beta, but right now, watching him create magic while I can barely sense his omega perfection...

Focus on dinner. Focus on surviving. Focus on anything but how right this feels.

I throw myself into cooking, letting the familiar motions ground me. The chicken goes under hot water to defrost while I gather ingredients for the sauce. Garlic, cloves, cheese, soy sauce, rice—not everything I need, but enough to work with.

Jinx appears beside me, hopping onto the counter like an overgrown cat. He’s abandoned any pretense of cleaning, butthat’s not my problem. I’m just grateful they haven’t locked me in the basement again.

“What are ya making?” he asks, eyeing the sauce I’m mixing. His fingers wiggle in a clear request for a taste.

Any other time, I’d play with him—dip my finger in the sauce and watch those predator eyes darken as I feed him. But it’s been a day of too many emotions, too many possibilities I can’t afford to consider. Instead, I hand him the spoon, focusing on the chicken sizzling in the pan.

He moans around the taste, the sound pure sin. “Oh hell, that’s good.”

“Keep praising me, Havoc.” I wink at him because I can’t seem to help myself. “Gets me wet.”

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