Page 71 of Reckless: Collision

Worth it. Already worth it.

Ryker pulls up out back. To anyone looking it’s just a small café on a corner. But it’s anything but underground.

See after purchasing the café we discovered tunnels underground. Tunnels I used to my advantage. I instantly knew I wanted to create a speakeasy type of situation for omegas only.

And I did.

Sanctuary thrums with life even through the back entrance—bass vibrating through concrete, music bleeding through steeldoors. I usher our little group inside, nodding to the security who know better than to question my guests.

“Straight up,” I direct, herding them toward the VIP stairs before anyone can get distracted by the controlled chaos below. The familiar scent of sweat and secrets and submission wraps around me like a welcome home.

Finn’s already scanning sight lines, his analytical brain mapping exits and vantage points. Ryker takes position outside the VIP lounge like the world’s sexiest bouncer, while Jinx melts into the shadows with a murmured promise of drinks.

I guide Cayenne into my sanctuary within Sanctuary—a glass-walled haven overlooking the stage where the band is setting up. The view alone is worth whatever hell Ryker will give me later.

“Holy shit.” She presses against the glass, and I watch her reflection’s eyes go wide as she processes what she’s seeing. “Is that?—”

“Dash’s band?” I move beside her, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin but not quite touching. “They play here sometimes.”

“Which means...” Her sharp intake of breath tells me the moment she spots them. Aria and her pack, holding court near the stage like the royalty they are. “You brought me to where my best friend hangs out?”

There’s something in her voice I can’t quite read—hurt maybe, or longing. Both?

“I thought,” I choose my words carefully, watching her face for micro-expressions like I would study a new composition, “that maybe seeing her happy and safe might help. Show you that you didn’t just abandon them. That your choices protected them.”

She turns to me then, those green eyes holding storms. “You’re more dangerous than they give you credit for, pretty boy.”

“Oh?” I let my lips curve into the smile that usually precedes trouble.

“You see too much.” Her hand comes up, hovering near my face but not quite touching. Like she’s afraid to complete the gesture. “Feel too much. It’s not very omega of you.”

I catch her wrist before she can retreat, pressing her palm to my cheek. “Good thing I never learned to be a proper omega then.”

“I built this place,” I say softly, watching her watch Aria, “after we found the tunnels beneath the café. Old prohibition routes, probably—history giving sanctuary to a new kind of forbidden.”

Her fingers are still warm against my cheek, grounding me as the memories surface. “The first time I ran from my family’s arranged marriage, I learned something about omegas. We’re all running from something. Expectations. Traditions. The pretty cages they build for us.”

“So you built this instead.” Her voice carries understanding that makes my chest ache. “A different kind of cage?”

“No.” I turn into her touch, letting her feel the passion behind my words. “A fortress. We only allow mated packs here—ones who’ve proven they protect rather than prey. Every alpha goes through rigorous screening. This isn’t about constraint. It’s about choice.”

She looks back through the glass, and I follow her gaze. Aria glows with happiness, surrounded by her pack’s love. But then Cayenne’s breath catches as she spots Willow and Ginger in the crowd.

The guilt hits my senses like sour lemons—sharp and biting.

“Why the guilt, piccola?” I brush my thumb across her wrist where her pulse races. “You protected them. Got them out of harm’s way when Sterling Labs?—”

“I didn’t tell them everything.” The words spill out like confession. “About why I had to run. About what I found. About...” She swallows hard. “About who I might really be.”

“The Sterling name,” I murmur, pieces clicking into place.

She nods, still watching her friends below. “How do you tell your best friends that you might be related to the people trying to kill you? That your father could be—” She cuts herself off, but I catch the tremor in her hand.

“Family isn’t always blood,” I say, thinking of my own perfectly pedigreed relatives versus the beautiful disasters I chose. “Sometimes it’s who you choose to protect. Who you choose to trust.”

“Trust gets people killed.”

“So does running alone.”

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