Page 27 of Reckless: Chaos

“Exactly.” The trap door opens with a soft click. “After you, beautiful.”

She starts to move, then freezes. Because there, in the doorway, stands our hunter. Smoke curls around their tactical gear like special effects, making them look more phantom than human.

“A trap door,” they say, and I swear I hear something like pride in their voice. “Now that’s what I call style.”

I see the gun before Cayenne does. See the way our hunter’s posture shifts from appreciation to purpose in one fluid motion. My body moves on pure instinct, omega protective drives kicking in despite knowing I’m supposed to be the one being protected.

But Cayenne—my brilliant, reckless beta—moves faster.

“Not his club,” she growls, and then she’s shoving me hard toward the trap door. “Not him.”

The shot cracks through the air like a broken note.

Time fractures into perfect clarity—the kind I usually only find on stage. I catalog every detail with performer’s precision:

The way Cayenne’s body jerks.

The spray of red across my vanity mirror.

Those green eyes behind the mask, widening fractionally. Like this wasn’t part of the choreography.

“No!” A sound rips from my chest, raw and primal, vibrating at a frequency that makes the mirrors tremble and the air taste like copper and fear. But Cayenne’s already moving again, herhand pressing against her shoulder as she kicks the hunter’s knee with devastating accuracy.

They stumble—the first imperfect movement I’ve seen from them. Almost like... like they didn’t expect to actually hit her.

“Trap door,” Cayenne grits out, shoving me again. “Now.”

“Not without?—”

“Yes without.” She manages a smile that’s more grimace. “I didn’t take a bullet so you could argue about it.”

The hunter recovers, raising their weapon again, but something’s changed in their posture. Hesitation where there was only fluid grace before.

Then the ceiling explodes.

Quinn’s tactical team drops through like avenging angels, filling the room with smoke and commands and chaos. I catch a glimpse of the hunter melting away into the shadows, those green eyes lingering on Cayenne for one more moment.

“Took you long enough,” Cayenne tells the tactical team, then promptly collapses into my arms.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, lowering us both to the floor as medics rush in. “I’ve got you, piccola.”

Her blood stains my costume, but all I can think about is how the hunter’s eyes had widened when she went down. How their perfect performance had cracked for just a moment.

Like watching her bleed wasn’t part of the plan at all.

The medics try to separate us, but my omega instincts have taken over completely. I bare my teeth at anyone who gets too close, holding her against my chest as they work around me.

“She needs space,” one of them tries to reason.

“She needs pack,” I snarl, surprising myself with the ferocity. Because she is pack, whether she accepts it or not. Whether Ryker admits it or not.

“Always,” Cayenne mumbles against my chest, “so dramatic.”

“Says the woman who just took a bullet for me.” My voice catches. “That was my role, piccola. I’m supposed to be the tragic hero in this performance.”

“Didn’t read that script.” Her smile is dopey from the pain meds they’ve given her. “Wrote my own.”

Of course she did. My beautiful chaos agent, rewriting all our carefully constructed scenes.

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