Page 81 of Reckless: Collision

Crisis temporarily averted, but sleep remains a distant dream. The clock’s steady advance pushes me toward a decision—stay in my designated safe zone or risk venturing upstairs where four enhanced sets of senses could catch me at any moment.

The basement suddenly feels too much like a cage, and my feet make the choice before my brain can fully process the risks. I find myself in their kitchen, moonlight painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. They’ve been cleaning—a domestic gesture that feels both touching and terrifying. Like they’re making space for me in more ways than one.

Standing here in borrowed pajamas, cramping and sleep-deprived, I realize I’m facing a vulnerability I can’t hide from. The moonlit kitchen taunts me with its newfound cleanliness, a reminder that four very territorial men are trying to make room for me in their lives. My cramps pulse in time with my doubts, each wave a reminder of my body’s betrayal.

Screw this.

I head back downstairs, stripping off my sleep clothes with military precision. The sports bra goes on first, followed by my favorite black leggings. They hug every curve like a second skin, designed for movement and stealth. I check the USB drive taped beneath my bra—my little secret still secure against my skin.

I swipe my shoes and a hoodie intent to put them on when I get to the roof.

Physical activity helps with cramps. That’s what all the wellness blogs say, though they probably don’t mean parkour at 3 AM. But their course calls to me, begging to be conquered. To be mastered.

Jinx showed me the basics, his feral grace making everything look effortless. But I don’t need his cherry tobacco scentwrapping around me like armor. Don’t need Ryker’s tactical precision or Finn’s calculations or Theo’s artistic grace.

I can do this alone.

Have to do this alone.

My bare feet make no sound on the stairs, muscle memory from years of moving through spaces I shouldn’t access. But when I reach their wing of the house, I pause. The hallway stretches before me like forbidden territory, walls lined with photos that catch the moonlight.

I shouldn’t stop. Shouldn’t look. But curiosity has always been my fatal flaw.

The pictures tell a story—not just of pack, but of family built from broken pieces. Jinx and Finn tangled together on that circular couch, both asleep with books fallen open. Theo at his piano, head thrown back in what looks like pure joy. Ryker actually smiling—a rare sight that transforms his whole face—as he works on his motorcycle.

A soft snore drifts from behind one of the closed doors. The sound is oddly endearing, making Ryker seem more human than the tactical machine he pretends to be.

Another door stands slightly ajar, warm vanilla and jasmine scent spilling out. Theo’s room. I find myself wondering if he has a nest in there, like the romance novels describe. A safe space filled with soft things and pack scents. Something in my chest aches at the thought.

Do they all sleep alone? Or do they share space like they share everything else—fluid and natural as breathing? The question sits uncomfortable in my mind, stirring something that feels too close to longing.

No. Focus.

The attic access is just ahead, my real goal. Not these glimpses into a life I can’t have, a belonging I can’t risk. The USBdrive pressed against my skin reminds me why I’m here. Why I need to prove I can handle myself.

I reach for the attic ladder, but my hand hesitates. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe in the mingled scents of pack and home and possibility.

Then I climb up, leaving the warmth of their space for the cool promise of pre-dawn air. The rooftop obstacle course awaits, painted in shades of grey and shadow. Perfect conditions for proving I don’t need a safety net.

Time to fly solo.

The attic window opens with barely a whisper—at least Pack Locke believes in maintaining their entry points. I slip through into pre-dawn darkness, taking a moment to pull on my shoes and hoodie against the bitter March air. The fabric still smells faintly of my apartment, of the life I left behind. Of choices I can’t take back.

The obstacle course looms before me, more threatening without Jinx’s steady presence at my back. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To prove I don’t need him. Don’t need any of them.

My period cramps pulse a warning, but I ignore them. Focus on the path ahead—the lower section Jinx insisted I master before trying anything more ambitious. The one I’d argued about, proving his point when I nearly fell.

Not this time.

I drop into position, remembering his instructions.Tuck tighter. Roll across your shoulder, not straight over.My body moves through the motion with more grace than before, muscle memory replacing fear with function.

The first jump comes easier now that I know what to expect. Each handhold feels familiar, my fingers finding purchase where before they’d slipped. I flow through the sequence like following well-written code—each movement leading naturally to the next.

When I reach the first peak, triumph floods my system better than any painkiller. I did it. Clean execution, no alpha safety net required. The growing light paints the mountains in shades of possibility, and for a moment I let myself feel it—pure, uncomplicated victory.

A breeze carries the mingled scents of pack from their open windows below, reminding me that even this small win comes with complications. That everything in my life now walks the line between independence and connection.

But up here, in this moment, I’m just me. Just Cayenne proving that beta doesn’t mean weak. Doesn’t mean needing protection.

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