Page 68 of Reckless: Collision

“You want to take her to Sanctuary?” His voice drops lower, conscious of enhanced hearing in the house. “Is that... wise?”

It’s probably not. But watching her cage herself in this house, watching her vibrancy dim day by day—that’s killing something in me I didn’t even know could die.

“She needs out,” I say simply. “We all do. And where better to let her taste freedom than in a place built for breaking rules?”

Finn groans, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. I know he’ll indulge me. They all will. It’s one of the perks of being their omega—that, and watching their careful control fracture when I push just right.

“Fine.” His smirk holds resignation and mischief in equal measure. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who has to convince Ryker.”

“You’re on.” I bump his fist with mine, already tasting victory. “Best of three?”

“One and done.” The challenge in his voice makes my omega purr. Trust Finn to raise stakes with mathematical precision.

I chew the inside of my cheek, weighing probability against instinct. “Ready.”

“Set.”

“Go.”

I choose rock because it’s pure impulse, art over analysis. Lucky for me, Finn chooses scissors—ever the strategistoverthinking simple things. I crush him with perhaps too much glee.

I dart down the hall before he can protest, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to reach Cayenne.

“You owe me!” Finn’s voice chases after me.

My laughter echoes through the house as I rush toward her door—our temporary prison for a beta who refuses to be contained. I don’t knock. I’ve already seen her perfectly curved body in all its naked glory. Instead, I march down the steps like I own them because I fucking do.

I find her on the couch, a stack of books beside her like a fortress of paper and possibility.

“No,” she says before I can even open my mouth.

“You have no idea what I’m going to say.” I hover over the back of the couch, drinking in the sight of her. She’s lounging under a blanket, lost in one of my favorite series. The pages are worn, spine cracked with love—physical proof of stories revisited.

“How many books are in this series?” She turns it over, frowning at the cover. “They aren’t even numbered.”

“Twenty-three.”

“What number is this?”

“Three.” I tap the cover, memories of late-night reading sessions flooding back. “It’s my favorite one.”

“I’m glad I assumed correctly.” She sighs, dropping the book in her lap. “The Relic has a movie about it, right?”

“Movie night?” The hope in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.

She chews her bottom lip, and my artist’s eye catches how the gesture transforms her whole face—from guarded to considering. “I’m in, but only because I want to see how well they did for my favorite Agent Pendergast.”

I grab the book, closing it with the reverence old friends deserve. The bookmark she stuffed in the back goes exactly where she left off—I know the agony of lost pages too well. “Do you want to get out of the house?”

She immediately goes on alert, body tensing like code about to execute. “Explain yourself, pretty boy.”

A nickname. I’m winning.

I debate surprising her, but she’s been hiding from us for three days. Three very long days, and I’m a selfish creature. “Clubbing.”

“I’m in.” She tosses off the blanket, showcasing perfectly sculpted bare legs that make my mouth go dry.

I have to swallow and look away. “Five minutes.”

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