Page 67 of Reckless: Collision

The realization hits like a sour note in an otherwise perfect composition, and I hate how much it bothers me. It’s not just avoidance—it’s the artful way she dances around our existence, turning our own house into negative space where we’re defined by her absence.

Our home has transformed into a theater of elaborate avoidance rituals.

Ryker adjusts his morning run to circle the east wing three times when her scent lingers too strongly in the west.

Jinx’s fingers develop a new nervous habit—tapping thrice against his thigh whenever the security feed shows her moving through rooms we’ve just vacated.

Finn reorganizes his library by subject rather than author, creating excuses to linger in spaces where lemon and ozone cling to upholstery.

I find myself playing compositions in minor keys, the notes chasing the shadow-patterns her pacing creates on the ceiling during those midnight hours when sleep abandons us all. We’ve become actors in a performance none of us auditioned for, stepping around scenes we’re desperate to play.

Pretending this delicate balance we’ve built isn’t crumbling like the façade of my family’s estate back in Italy.

Dio mio, I hate it.

The pack bonds vibrate with discord—Ryker’s control wound so tight it hums, Jinx’s chaos bleeding crimson through our connections, Finn’s steady rhythm faltering. My omega instincts itch under my skin, demanding I fix this, smooth the jagged edges until we’re whole again.

We need out. Need movement. Need...

My mind drifts to Sanctuary, to bass drops that rattle bones and lights that paint skin in neon absolution. To a stage where identity becomes fluid, where omega doesn’t mean what my parents tried to make it mean.

Yes. That’s exactly what we need.

But first...

I knock on Finn’s door because some aristocratic habits refuse to die, no matter how many times I’ve killed my past.

“Why do you knock?” Finn’s voice carries sleep’s rasp as he opens the door. No shirt, just low-slung pants and bed-mussed curls. He blinks at me through those adorably crooked glasses, and something in my chest aches with how much I love this beautiful beta who helps hold our broken pieces together.

I know what he sees—dilated pupils, parted lips, the heavy sweet of my omega scent turned dark with want. I never learned to hide desire like a proper omega should. Never wanted to.

“Come here.” I let need bleed into my voice, that omega timbre that makes even our analytical beta’s pulse jump. Let him see how much I need this connection, this grounding. I grab his pants, dragging him into a kiss that tastes like desperation and belonging.

Just him. Just us. Just for a moment before everything changes again.

His lips are a contradiction—soft yet demanding, yielding with the same precise calculation he applies to everything. When Finn kisses, it’s like he’s solving an equation, each press and stroke a variable leading to the perfect solution. I chase his methodical passion with artistic chaos, turning our kiss into a duet of opposing styles that somehow creates harmony.

I could lose myself in this, in the way he tastes like earl grey and rain-washed stone. In how his hands settle at my waist with just enough pressure to ground without constraining. Freedom within structure—everything I never knew I needed until this pack showed me what family could be.

He breaks the kiss first, those clever eyes studying me through slightly fogged glasses. “Not that I’m complaining,” he says, thumb tracing circles on my hip, “but it’s barely evening. What brings you to my door?”

“Better question, why are you sleeping at this hour?” I counter, noting the pillow creases still marking his cheek. The shadows under his eyes speak of nights spent monitoring security feeds, analyzing data. Watching over us all in his own quiet way.

He shrugs, a too-casual gesture that sets off warning bells in my omega instincts. “Just catching up on rest.”

Liar. But I let it slide, filing away his evasion for later discussion. We have more pressing concerns.

“It’s been three days.” I don’t need to elaborate. We’ve all felt it—the growing tension since Ryker’s aborted motorcycle lesson. Since Cayenne started treating our home like an elaborate obstacle course designed to avoid contact.

“Three days, four hours, and approximately twenty-seven minutes,” Finn confirms because of course he’s been counting. “But who’s keeping track?”

I let my lips curve into the smile that usually precedes trouble. “What if I told you I had an idea?”

His groan carries fond resignation. “The last time you hadan ideawe ended up with a piano on the roof.”

“That was art, darling.” I wave away his pragmatism. “No, I’m thinking Sanctuary.”

The word hangs between us, heavy with possibility and risk. Finn’s body tenses slightly—he knows what my underground kingdom represents. The freedom. The danger. The carefully cultivated chaos that lets omegas be more than society’s pretty pets.

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