Page 89 of Reckless: Collision

“I don’t know how to stop running,” I admit, the truth spilling out like code I can’t contain. “I don’t know how to trust that anything good will last.”

“None of us did.” He reaches over, his fingers finding mine with delicate strength. “But that’s the beauty of pack, piccola. You don’t have to trust all at once. You build it pixel by pixel, note by note, heart by stubborn heart.”

The snow falls harder now, erasing boundaries between earth and sky. Somewhere in the house, I hear movement—the others waking, the day beginning. But here in this moment, with Theo’s hand warm in mine, I let myself imagine a future where belonging isn’t just another system to hack.

Where peace isn’t something I have to steal.

Where home isn’t just a temporary firewall against the world.

“Tell me about your music.” The words slip out gentle as snowfall. “Earlier, you said your parents decided what songs you could play. But now...”

“Now I play whatever my soul demands.” His voice takes on that quality unique to artists discussing their passion. “In Italy, music was another cage. Every note measured, every performance a display of omega grace and submission.”

He looks out at the snow, but his eyes see something distant. Something that makes his scent sharpen with memory. “The first time I played what I wanted—truly wanted—I was seventeen. Locked in my room after refusing another suitor. I played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata like it was a war cry.”

“And now you own a club built on music.” I can’t hide my curiosity. “On freedom.”

His smile turns proud, almost feral. “Everything you see here—the mansion, the grounds, Sanctuary—I built it note by note. Every performance, every private concert, every composition. My parents thought music would keep me docile. Instead, it gave me wings.”

“You made all this?” I look around with new appreciation. “From music?”

“Rich alphas pay obscene amounts to hear an omega play.” His laugh holds dark satisfaction. “Especially one who performs like sin and danger instead of submission. I took their money and built a fortress. A sanctuary. A place where omegas could be more than pretty pets.”

There’s power in his words, in how he turned society’s expectations into a weapon. Into freedom.

“The piano in the greenhouse,” I remember the beautiful instrument I’d glimpsed earlier. “That’s where you compose?”

“That’s where I create chaos in ordered notes.” His eyes spark with something wild and beautiful. “Would you like to hear?”

The invitation feels weighty, important. Like being offered a key to something precious.

“Yes,” I breathe, and his answering smile makes me understand why alphas would pay fortunes just to watch him play.

He unfolds from the rocking chair with that liquid grace that makes my beta heart ache. “Come.” He offers his hand, and I let him pull me from my warm nest of blankets. The coffee mugs stay behind, forgotten sentinels in the mudroom as we pad through the quiet house.

The greenhouse connects to the main living area through glass doors that catch the morning light. Inside, the air feels different—warmer, alive with growing things. The piano sits like a black pearl among the greenery, both foreign and perfectly at home.

When Theo sits at the piano, he transforms. Gone is the lounging omega in low-slung pants—in his place sits an artist about to wage war with eighty-eight keys. His fingers hover over ivory like he’s summoning lightning.

The first notes hit soft as snow, deceptively gentle. But they build, each chord growing darker, hungrier, until the music fills the greenhouse like a living thing. It’s nothing I recognize—not classical, not modern, but something wild and new. Something that speaks of breaking chains and finding wings.

I sink onto a nearby bench, letting the sound wash over me. Through the glass ceiling, snow continues to fall, each flake caught in morning light like stars falling to earth. The music weaves through it all, telling stories I feel in my bones—of running, of finding, of belonging.

My eyes grow heavy, the lack of sleep finally catching up now that Theo’s music has stripped away my defenses. Each note feels like permission to rest, to trust, to let go just for a moment.

He transitions into something softer, and I swear I can hear dawn in the melody. “You’re tired,” he says between phrases, his fingers never stopping their dance across keys.

“No,” I lie, fighting a yawn. “Keep playing.”

His laugh melts into the music. “Come, piccola. I know what you need.”

The last notes fade like a lullaby as he leads me to the family room—now clean of its bachelor chaos, the circular couch piled with blankets that look suspiciously nest-like.

“Movie?” he suggests, already knowing my answer. “Something mindless to help you sleep?”

“I’m not going to sleep.” Another lie that makes him smile. “But if you’re offering...”

I curl into the corner of the circular couch as Theo pulls up something mindless on the TV—some cooking show where nothing really matters and no one gets hurt. The volume stays low, just background noise to the snow falling outside the windows.

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