Page 100 of Reckless: Corruption

“Your definition of fun remains disturbing,” Finn observes, joining us with his tablet of chemical protocols.

“Life’s all about perspective,” Jinx counters, already stripping off his shirt in preparation for what will undoubtedly be the messiest part of the job. The movement reveals the tattoos that map his back—a constellation of scars transformed into art by Theo’s careful hand.

Both Theo and I can’t help but stare as he stretches, muscles shifting beneath inked skin. Even half-feral and completely chaotic, there’s something magnetic about him—some primal force that draws the eye. Jinx catches our synchronized appreciation and grins, running his hands down his chest with theatrical slowness.

“See something you like?” he taunts, flexing unnecessarily.

“Just wondering how someone with your body fat percentage can have so much energy,” I retort, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that I haven’t looked away.

“He’s actually enjoying this,” I marvel, watching as Ryker similarly prepares for pool cleaning duty.

“Jinx finds joy in strange places,” Theo says fondly. “It’s one of his better qualities.”

The next few hours pass in a blur of physical labor that feels refreshingly different from combat training or mission preparation. Draining the pool requires a surprising amount of engineering knowledge, which Finn provides from his position as technical supervisor. Cleaning the exposed surfaces means teamwork and coordination, with Jinx and Ryker handling the heaviest parts while Theo and I manage detail work.

By mid-afternoon, we’re all pleasantly exhausted, covered in various degrees of pool grime, but the concrete basin gleams with promise, ready for refilling. We collapse on the newly arranged patio furniture, passing around water bottles and admiring our handiwork.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Ryker observes, satisfaction evident despite his usual restraint.

“We should celebrate once it’s filled,” Jinx suggests, sprawled across a lounger with characteristic lack of spatial boundaries. “Actual swimming. Maybe a barbecue. Something that doesn’t involve tactical planning or medical testing.”

“That sounds...” Finn searches for the right word, “normal.”

“Exactly,” I agree, surprised by how appealing the concept of normality has become. “We could use some normal.”

“The water will take overnight to fill and treat,” Finn calculates, already planning logistics. “So tomorrow evening, potentially.”

“Perfect,” Theo decides, looking more relaxed than he has in days despite the physical exertion. “I’ll handle food.”

“And I’ll handle the fun,” Jinx volunteers, which immediately raises alarm bells.

“Defined as?” Ryker questions, justifiably wary. Even with Sterling’s threats temporarily sidelined, our alpha never fully relaxes his vigilance.

“Nothing illegal,” Jinx assures him, which is notably not a reassurance at all. “Probably. Though I reserve the right to skinny dip after midnight.”

“You do that and I’m doubling the chlorine,” Ryker warns, though the threat lacks conviction.

As the conversation devolves into good-natured bickering about what constitutes appropriate pool party activities, I find myself struck by the simple domesticity of the moment. Five broken people, covered in pool cleaning residue, planning a barbecue like the world isn’t falling apart around us. Like my father isn’t orchestrating beta genocide and Mona isn’t racing to perfect a vaccine before it’s too late.

It should feel wrong—this pocket of normalcy amid catastrophe. Instead, it feels necessary. Essential. A reminder of what we’re fighting for, beyond mere survival.

“You okay?” Finn asks quietly, noticing my momentary retreat into thought.

“Yeah,” I assure him, finding it surprisingly true. “Just thinking that this is nice. Being normal for a minute.”

“Normal is relative,” he observes with that problem-solver’s focus that never quite turns off. “Especially for us.”

“True.” I gesture to our unlikely family unit—feral alpha, tactical leader, artistic omega, analytical beta, and whatever category I fall into these days. “We’re not exactly the Brady Bunch.”

“The who?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Never mind. Before your time.” I bump his shoulder gently with mine. “How are you feeling, really? The vaccine seems to be working, but...”

“Better,” he says simply, no flourish needed. “The fever’s gone. Energy’s returning. Mona says the virus is receding, not just stabilizing.”

Relief floods through me—genuine, unrestrained happiness that feels almost foreign after weeks of controlled crisis management. “That’s... that’s really good news.”

“It is.” His smile carries no reservations, just quiet joy. “Mona’s vaccine works, Cayenne. It actually works.”

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