Page 19 of Reckless: Corruption

“Sounds like someone’s jealous.” I edge toward the doorway, cataloging my surroundings with new precision. “Did it bother you, watching father favor the omega while trying to turn you into his perfect alpha weapon?”

A shadow detaches from the darkness, Alexander’s movement suddenly visible. There—he’s favoring his left side, just slightly. Old habits dying hard.

“You know nothing about this family.” His words carry the weight of years of carefully controlled rage. “You’re just anotherone of father’s experiments. A beta mistake he’s trying to correct.”

“And what are you?” I shift my weight, remembering how Mona described his tells. “The son he had to break and remake until you forgot who you really were? At least I know what I am. Do you?”

The snarl that tears from his throat sounds almost animal. Almost human. Alpha pheromones flood the cell, that instinctive dominance display meant to trigger submission in lesser designations. Where an omega might falter under the onslaught, I feel only a mild pressure—the benefit of being beta is imperviousness to most designation manipulation.

Good. Anger makes him sloppy.

Time to see if little sister’s combat notes are as accurate as her psychological warfare.

He moves like mercury, all liquid grace and poison promise. But now that I know what to look for, I see what Mona meant—the slight hesitation before each right-side attack, the way he overcompensates for that old knee injury.

The cell’s tight confines work against his longer reach, forcing him to adjust his approach. His fist grazes the concrete wall as I sidestep, leaving a smear of blood on the dingy surface.

I use the rusty sink fixture to pivot, gaining precious inches of space while using the cramped environment to my advantage.

“Is this all you’ve got?” I taunt, ducking under his first strike, my wounded shoulder screaming as I force it through the movement. “Daddy’s perfect alpha, and you’re still telegraphing your moves like an amateur.”

His next punch carries enough force to shatter concrete, but the rage behind it makes it predictable. I slip past his guard, targeting that sweet spot behind his left ear that Mona mapped out with Skittles.

The hit lands. His equilibrium wavers—forty-three seconds on the clock.

“You think knowing a few weak points makes you special?” He recovers faster than I expect, but there’s something new in his eyes now. Something almost like fear. “You think that broken little omega’s tricks will save you?”

“No.” I dance back, keeping space between us, fighting through the pain of my previous injuries. “But they make this a lot more interesting.”

His laugh holds no humor. “You’re just like her. Both of you, thinking you’re so clever.” He advances, each step measured despite his rage. “But you want to know the real difference between you and Mona?”

I taste copper as one of his hits connects with my jaw. “Enlighten me.”

“She survived her training.” His smile turns cruel. “You won’t.”

The next few moments blur into a symphony of violence. He’s stronger, faster, more experienced—but I have something he doesn’t expect. I have a sister who spent eighteen years cataloging every flaw in his perfect facade.

Left knee at thirty-degree angle? Buckles under precise pressure. Favors right hook combinations? Leaves his liver exposed. That old shoulder injury from his Special Forces days? Absolutely hates being dislocated.

My body protests with each movement, yesterday’s wounds screaming as fresh ones join them.

My ribs catch fire when I twist to avoid his grab, the knife wound in my stomach threatening to reopen.

My vision tunnels briefly after a particularly hard block, but I force myself to focus through the pain.

Adapt. Compensate. The injured shoulder means I need to lead with my right, even when it’s not ideal. My breathingcomes in controlled bursts, trying to maximize oxygen without aggravating my ribs.

I reach deeper through the pack bond, needing strength beyond what my body can provide. Theo’s artistic warmth flows like music, but carries a new edge to it—his pre-heat must have progressed further in my absence. The thought that he’s fighting both his biology and his worry for me gives me a surge of determination. I won’t let him suffer like that for nothing.

The connection strengthens momentarily—Jinx’s feral rage burning like a distant star, Finn’s analytical focus cutting through pain with mathematical precision, and Ryker’s unwavering resolve anchoring it all.

The sensation gives me just enough to duck Alexander’s next strike, using his momentum against him.

I land three solid hits for every five of his, each one targeting the weaknesses Mona mapped out in sugar and spite. His fury grows with every successful strike, making him more dangerous but less controlled.

Something strange twists in my chest with each effective hit—a sick satisfaction tangled with something like grief. These hands are mine but the knowledge behind them comes from my sister. The blood on his face matches the blood in my veins. Family shouldn’t be about finding the perfect angle to make each other bleed.

But he made his choice. And I’m making mine.

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