Page 22 of Reckless: Chaos

Some performances leavescars on your soul. I’ve sung enough tragedies to know the weight of them, the way they settle into your bones and change you. But watching terror bloom across that omega’s bruised face, seeing Cayenne’s shoulders straighten like she’s preparing for a blow—this is a different kind of tragedy altogether.

Her words hover in the space between us, vibrating like the final note of a tragedy—the kind that leaves audiences frozen in their seats long after the curtain falls. No one breathes. No one moves. The air itself seems to wait for what comes next.

My mind, trained by years on stage to catch every subtle cue, catalogs details with merciless precision: the way Cayenne’s fingers curl into fists at her sides, how our messenger seems to fold deeper into herself with each passing second, the distant thrum of bass from above that feels less like music now and more like a countdown to chaos.

“Merda.” The Italian tastes like home on my tongue, the familiar syllables escaping before I can catch them. I drag my hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “Ryker is going to dismantle me one limb at a time and enjoy every second of it.”

It’s not the most appropriate response to learning my sanctuary’s been compromised and Sterling Labs is hunting my—our—beta, but gallows humor has always been my shield. The startled laugh it pulls from Cayenne makes it worth it, even if it catches in her throat like broken glass.

My hands move with performance-precise grace, triggering the UV lights that bathe everything in purple revelation. The lack of entry stamp on our wounded omega’s wrist confirms what my gut already knew—they didn’t just leave her at our door. They got her inside. Past all our carefully crafted defenses, past every protection I’ve built to keep my people safe.

“Don’t blame yourself, piccola.” I keep my voice gentle, the same tone I use to calm frightened omegas during their first time on stage. The poor thing looks ready to shatter. “They excel at turning people into pawns. Trust me, I know the weight of those chains.”

Two calls to make. One that will hurt, one that might destroy everything.

Quinn answers first, voice thick with interrupted sleep. “Theo? It’s four in the fucking morning.”

“Code Byzantine.” The words taste like ash and old fears. “Club’s compromised. Sterling Labs made their move.” I watch Cayenne through my lashes, cataloging how she holds herself like she’s already preparing to run. Always ready to sacrifice herself to protect others. “They’re hunting her. In person.”

A stream of creative curses floods the line before: “Ryker’s already calling.”

Of course he is. Because my Alpha has probably been tracking us since we left the mansion, protective instincts warring with his trust in me. He’s beautifully predictable like that.

“Tell him—” But Quinn’s already gone, and my phone lights up with Ryker’s name like an accusation painted in neon.

I answer before he can speak, infusing my voice with all the dramatic flair I usually save for encores. “Before you plot my murder, remember I’m your favorite. The pretty one. The one who makes your coffee exactly right.”

“What part,” his voice could freeze hell itself, and I feel its chill even through the phone, “oflockdownescaped your understanding?”

The bass above shifts tempo—one of our subtle warning systems—and I watch as regular patrons begin their practiced, casual drift toward predetermined exits. My staff moves like a choreographed dance, beautiful in their precision. This, at least, we’ve rehearsed.

“The part,” I say softly, all pretense of playfulness fading, “where I ignore an omega bleeding on my doorstep. The part where I turn my back on everything Sanctuary stands for.” My free hand finds Cayenne’s, both comfort and claim. “The part where I let fear rule me.”

A heavy pause, then: “Status report. Now.”

“They used her to deliver a message.” I meet our messenger’s terrified eyes, trying to convey forgiveness she doesn’t yet believe she deserves. “Sterling Labs isn’t just coming for Cayenne—they’re making a show of it. And my club...” The words stick in my throat like broken notes. “My sanctuary is compromised.”

“Location secure?”

“Running Byzantine protocols now.” I watch through the security feeds as UV lights flicker across the main floor, revealing who belongs and who doesn’t. “Quinn’s team?”

“En route.” A pause heavy with things we never say. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one.”

“No, that’s Finn.” I try for lightness even as my eyes catch something—someone—moving wrong through the crowd above.A shadow that doesn’t match its owner. “I’m the one who makes bad situations look good.”

“Theo.” The warning in his voice carries notes of fear now.

“I know, Alpha.” I watch the shadow pause, its movement too precise, too practiced. Like a dancer marking steps before a performance. “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

I end the call before he can hear the tremor in my voice. He will come for us. They all will. But that shadow above us? It moves like death dressed in designer clothes. Moves like someone trained to make killing look like art.

And its dance is aimed straight at Cayenne.

My world has always been one of performance—of knowing when to command attention and when to fade into the backdrop. Right now, watching that shadow move, I need to be very careful about which I choose.

“Piccola,” I keep my voice low, intimate, like I’m sharing secrets between sets. “Remember how I said some of us keep parts of ourselves hidden?” My fingers tap a rhythm against her palm—not quite morse code, but a performer’s signal. Stay close. Danger.

Her eyes sharpen, that brilliant mind already calculating. She starts to turn toward the security feed, but I catch her chin. Keep her focus on me like we’re just two people sharing space. Like I’m not watching death stalk her through my cameras.

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