Page 101 of Reckless: Corruption

The implication settles between us—that my risk, my choice to be Mona’s first human trial, is already paying dividends beyond my own survival. That Finn’s improvement suggests hope for thousands of others.

“Now we just need to mass-produce it,” I muse, the logistical challenges momentarily overshadowed by the simple victory of seeing color in Finn’s cheeks again.

“One step at a time,” he advises, ever the chess player thinking multiple moves ahead. “First, we fill the pool. Then we swim. Then we save the world.”

“Solid plan.”

As evening approaches, we finally drag ourselves inside for showers and food, the promise of tomorrow’s pool party creating an atmosphere of anticipation that’s been missing from the mansion for too long. The relief of having a project unrelated to Sterling or viruses or mission parameters—something simple, achievable, and purely for enjoyment—has lifted everyone’s spirits.

After my shower, I seek out Theo, finding him in the kitchen already planning tomorrow’s menu with characteristic attention to detail. The tension hasn’t disappeared from his shoulders, but it’s lessened considerably, as though the day’s normalcy provided some relief even from biological imperatives.

“Need help?” I offer, leaning against the counter beside him.

“Just making a shopping list,” he says, glancing up with a smile that reaches his eyes for the first time in days. “Apparently everyone has very specific requests for their ideal barbecue menu.”

“Let me guess—Jinx wants everything spicy enough to classify as a weapon.”

“Naturally.” He adds another item to his list with elegant script. “And Finn has precise specifications about potato salad ingredients that suggest previous trauma.”

“What about you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What’s your ideal barbecue food?”

He considers this with surprising seriousness. “Fresh bread,” he says finally. “The kind that’s still warm when you tear it apart. Reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen, before... everything.”

The glimpse into his past—rare from our usually private omega—feels like a gift. “I can help with that. I make a decent focaccia.”

His eyes widen with surprise. “You bake?”

“Don’t act so shocked,” I laugh, nudging his shoulder playfully. “I might be a world-class hacker, but I also stress-bake when things go sideways. It’s like coding but with carbs.”

“Apparently.” His smile turns thoughtful. “What other hidden talents are you harboring, Cayenne Sterling?”

“If I told you, they wouldn’t be hidden,” I deflect, secretly hoping he eventually figures it out.

As I help him complete the shopping plans, a wave of warmth washes through me—one of the vaccine’s occasional side effects, but manageable. With it comes a subtle change in my scent, a temporary spike that makes Theo’s nostrils flare with immediate recognition.

“Another one?” he asks, concern evident.

“Just a flash,” I assure him. “Mona says it’s normal. Part of the immune response.”

His hand finds my forehead with innate caretaking instinct, touch cool against my temporarily heated skin. “Not too high,” he confirms, but doesn’t immediately withdraw his hand. The contact lingers, comfort rather than clinical assessment.

“I’m fine,” I promise, leaning slightly into his touch despite myself. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”

“Don’t be.” His smile turns rueful. “I’ve managed heats alone for years. A few more days of suppressants won’t kill me.”

“But they’re not comfortable.”

“Few worthwhile things are.” His hand finally drops, but he stays close, the kitchen island a barrier between us that somehow feels more symbolic than physical.

“Theo—”

“It’s my choice,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “Just like the vaccine was yours. We all take risks for what matters.”

The simple truth of it silences any further argument. He’s right, of course. We each make our sacrifices, choose our discomforts, for the things—the people—that matter most.

“Fine,” I concede. “But if the headaches get worse, promise you’ll let Mona help. She probably has something that would make the suppressants more manageable.”

“I promise.” The solemnity in his voice suggests he understands the importance of the request—that my concern comes from care rather than doubt about his choices.

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