Page 2 of Reckless: Corruption

“But not for you,” I finish, feeling the first spark of genuine hope in hours.

“Never for me,” Jinx agrees, that edge of controlled mania gleaming in his eyes. “Finn has the coordinates. Theo’s staging medical supplies.”

I nod, decision crystallizing. “We move at midnight. Full tactical. No PCA protocols.”

“You think she’s okay down there?” The question carries more vulnerability than Jinx typically allows himself.

I turn toward Sterling Tower, rain streaming down my face, and think of our beta. Her lemon-bright scent. Her fierce intelligence. Her unflinching courage.

“She’s a survivor,” I say, conviction burning through my veins. “And we’re getting her back before Sterling realizes exactly what he’s dealing with.”

“It’s not what he’s dealing with that concerns me,” Jinx says, darkness edging into his voice. “It’s who.”

Through the rain, I cast one last look at her frozen image. That slight lift at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

A promise.

“We’re coming for you,” I whisper to the night. “Whatever it takes. Wherever you are. Whatever you’ve done.”

Because some betrayals aren’t betrayals at all.

Some are just love, disguised as goodbye.

And it’s time to show Sterling why some reputations are earned in blood.

Chapter 1

Cayenne

Consciousness returns like a corrupted file—fragmented,distorted, pieces missing where Alex’s pistol kissed my skull. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, a familiar copper signature that speaks of failure.

The drip of water marks time in this concrete tomb, each splash a metronome counting down to something I don’t want to face. The sound bounces off stone walls, amplified by emptiness until it’s more percussion than liquid. Each drop hits the growing puddle with enough force to make me flinch, like a reminder of how spectacularly I’ve miscalculated.

I take inventory through the fog of what’s likely a concussion, categorizing my recent sins against self-preservation. The bruises from my parkour misadventures still paint my ribs in watercolor shades of regret, tender spots that protest with each shallow breath. My shoulder carries the signature of a bullet meant for someone else—the healing wound throbs in time with my heart, a morse code of consequences.

But those were calculated risks, weren’t they?

Clean code with clear objectives. This—breaking into Sterling Labs, facing down my own brother—this was pure chaos. The kind of reckless override that gets systems burned to ash.

The kind that gets people killed.

Time bleeds here, marked only by the rhythmic torture of that water drop and the hollow ache where pack bonds could be. The absence feels like missing lines of code, leaving my program incomplete. I never thought I’d miss them like missing limbs.

Ryker always pushing my buttons with his alpha commands. Jinx pushing them just to get in my pants. Theo’s snuggles that I’d trade a kidney for right now, even just an afternoon of movies and popcorn. And Finn, what I wouldn’t give for a game of chess that I’d surely lose.

My fingers twitch involuntarily, seeking warmth that isn’t there, bodies that protected me even when I pushed them away.

The cell itself is an exercise in minimalist horror—all brutal efficiency and psychological warfare. A military cot promises backaches and regret, its thin mattress carrying the sweat-stained history of previous occupants. A toilet offers all the dignity of a prison reality show.

And beyond the iron bars that separate me from freedom, eyes watch from the darkness. Not threatening, exactly. More like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.

I’ve tried engaging my mystery observer, but they maintain their silence.

The water hits my face again, cold enough to make me gasp. Code interrupted, system rebooting. I push myself up against the wall, letting the concrete leech what little warmth remains from my bones. My captors have left me here to marinate in my own filth—psychological warfare 101. Let the prisoner stew in uncertainty and fear before the real debugging begins.

The waiting is its own kind of torture.

My stomach has given up its angry growling and moved to silent protest, the kind of hollow emptiness that makes my vision swim when I turn my head too quickly. The last thing I ate was a protein bar in the car on the way to Sterling Labs.

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