Page 97 of Reckless: Collision

I was down with that too.

“Talk to her.” He pushes off the wall. “Then we’ll talk.”

“You’re shutting me out.” The accusation falls flat because we both know the truth.

His hand lands heavy on my shoulder, grounding me. “You,” he squeezes once, “shut us out first.”

He leaves me there, picking at yarn like I can somehow knit myself back together. But as he opens the door, her scent hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.

Lemon. But not just any lemon. Sweet lemon, like summer sunlight trapped in custard. It makes my fucking mouth water.

She stands there with her fist raised to knock, looking like water in a desert. Black tights hug curves that make my hands itch to touch. An oversized sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing skin that I remember tasting. Her hair’s piled in a messy bun on top of her head, showing off a neck I want to sink my teeth into.

“Oh, hey.” Her voice carries notes of uncertainty. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Ryker looks back at me, and I can feel his knowing smirk through our bond. Asshole.

“You aren’t.” He says, and the weight of his earlier words hangs between us.Talk to her.

“Right.” She draws the word out, clearly not buying it. “Any whore,” another deliberate pause that makes something primal stir in my chest, “I’m missing the hoodie I wore sledding. Any idea where it could be?”

Ryker’s head snaps toward her, and for a moment, I see amusement crack through his stern facade.

Oh, we know exactly where it went. Our little klepto omega strikes again.

“I do believe,” I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees, using the position to drink in more of her scent, “that our resident omega collected it.”

A blush paints her cheeks pink, and her mouth forms a perfectohthat sends my mind places it shouldn’t go. Places filled with memories of what else that mouth can do.

Ryker shakes his head and walks away, but not before sending another push through our bond.Talk to her.

I slam the connection shut.

Cayenne watches him leave before turning back to me, confusion drawing her brows together. “Really? Why would he steal my hoodie?”

“He’s an omega glitch.” I watch as she moves into my space like she owns it. And fuck if she doesn’t look right here, among my ordered chaos. Her presence both soothes and aggravates something wild inside me.

“And?” She claims Ryker’s abandoned chair, pulling her legs up underneath her. The casual way she makes herself comfortable sets off warning bells in my head. No one gets comfortable around me. No one should.

“Your scent.” I kick my yarn bag further under my chair, though her sharp eyes have probably already cataloged it. “You’re a glitch.”

“My scent...” The wheels turn behind those green eyes. I can almost see her processing, connecting dots that most betas never even notice. “Oh.”

She settles deeper into the chair, and I find myself memorizing the way she fits there. How her presence somehow makes my pristine room feel less like a cage and more like a shelter.

“He likes your scent. Calms him.” I pause, weighing my next words. “He’s probably getting close to a heat.”

Another complication we’ll have to navigate. Another chance for everything to go wrong.

“I’ve never had an omega like my scent before.” Her analytical mind is clearly running scenarios, trying to make sense of pack dynamics she was never taught. “We aren’t a scent match though.”

Something in my chest aches at her confusion. At how the world has failed betas by keeping them ignorant of their place inour dynamics. All because some fucking politician decided they weren’t part of the equation.

They are. She is.

“Scent matches aren’t what you think they are.” I offer, knowing I’m walking a dangerous line between truth and protection.

“Alright hot shot,” her eyes narrow playfully, but there’s steel underneath. “What are they?”

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