Page 85 of Reckless: Collision

“And if it’s a match?”

“That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get to it.” Cryptic. Fantastic. Because this situation needed more mysteries. “Get in. Get out. No one can see you or hear you. No death. Nothing. Do you understand?”

I do understand. One wrong move and PCA will deny our existence faster than Jinx can start a fight. Which is saying something.

“Yeah.”

Thud.

What the actual fuck?

“Alright, call me when you have results. Do not update me and tell me nothing unless it’s on this secure line or in person.”

“Understood.” Another thud has me looking at the ceiling like it might give me answers.

“Don’t fuck this up.” And with that vote of confidence, Quinn hangs up.

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” I mutter, tossing the cordless phone across the room with perhaps more force than necessary. These late-night crisis calls are really doing wonders for my blood pressure.

Another thud, and okay, I need to figure out what’s going on before something—or someone—breaks. Slipping on my shoes and hoodie, I make my way to the attic where I find the window to Jinx’s obstacle course wide open.

What is he doing up this early? It’s not uncommon to find him working out his demons through physical exertion, but something feels different.

As I make my way out onto the roof, I see not Jinx but Cayenne leaping through the beginner course. The very one I can’t even complete, and she makes it look easy.

It’s hot as hell.

When she finishes triumphantly, she eyes the harder course, and my stomach drops. Because I know that look. It’s the same look Jinx gets before he does something spectacularly ill-advised.

Don’t do it.

I make my way across the roof because my gut is screaming that she’s about to do something stupid like attempt?—

She’s falling.

I cradle Cayenne in my arms, the scent of blood hitting me like a physical blow. My brain immediately launches into emergency protocols, cataloging worst-case scenarios while trying not to panic.

Blood. She’s bleeding. Internal injuries? Impact trauma? Why was she even up here alone?

“Put me down.” She squirms in my arms, but like hell am I letting go when she could be seriously hurt.

“You’re bleeding.” The words come out more accusatory than intended. “We need to get you to medical?—”

“Oh my god.” She stops struggling, fixing me with a look that questions my supposed intelligence. “I’m on my period, you ridiculous beta.”

Oh.

Oh.

Well, that’s... that’s actually worse. She was doing parkour while—My brain helpfully provides about sixteen different statistical studies about beta menstruation and injury rates, none of which are particularly useful right now.

“That’s not better!” I’m pretty sure my voice just cracked. “What possessed you to try advanced parkour while—” I can’t even say it. This is exactly the kind of reckless behavior that’s going to give me an ulcer.

She has the audacity to laugh. “What, you think a little monthly maintenance is going to stop me? Besides,” she pats my chest condescendingly, “physical activity helps with cramps.”

“Physical activity means yoga or light jogging, not launching yourself off buildings at 3 AM!”

My nose chooses this moment to remind me that I have allergies. Fantastic.

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