Page 26 of Reckless: Corruption

I couldn’t agree more.

Chapter 7

Cayenne

Fever dreams tastelike copper and candy. Every time I surface through the heat, reality shifts and fragments?—

I’m seven years old, watching my mother cry over a music box, its delicate melody warped by her sobs. The porcelain ballerina spins endlessly, her perfect pirouettes a stark contrast to my mother’s shaking hands as she whispers“I’m sorry”over and over. I never knew what she was apologizing for. Now I wonder if she knew what I’d become.

I’m sixteen, blood on my knuckles from my first real fight, the taste of victory and violence mixing with fear as I realize how good it feels to finally hit back.

I’m in that barn with Finn, his careful hands learning my body like a prayer, each touch deliberate as picking locks, as cracking codes. He’d taken me apart with the same focused intensity he used to dismantle security systems, until I came undone beneath his methodical devotion. The memory of hay against my back mingles with the scent of old wood and new possibilities.

I’m here, now, burning from the inside out as Alexander’s artwork decorates my flesh with surgical precision. Each cut asignature, each bruise a reminder that sharing blood doesn’t make you family.

“Stop being dramatic and take the antibiotics.” Mona’s voice cuts through the delirium, sharp as the knife our brother used to paint his masterpiece.

Something cold presses against my lips—pills, probably, though trusting anything she gives me feels dangerous now.

Alexander’s words echo in my head. Ask her about the last one she tried to save.

“You’re thinking too loud.” She forces the pills into my mouth, following them with what tastes like cherry cough syrup. “Also, you have a hundred and two degree fever because someone decided to play stabbing games with Alexander. Very sloppy. I expected better.”

I try to focus on her face, but the fever makes everything blur at the edges. Her oleander scent carries notes of clinical antiseptic beneath the sweetness, the contrast as jarring as her chaos-wrapped precision. Where Roman surrounds himself with sterile hospital efficiency, Mona’s approach to medicine involves candy wrappers and technicolor band-aids beside professional-grade antibiotics.

“Did they die?”

“Who?”

“The others. The ones you helped before.”

Her movements still, that carefully constructed chaos going quiet. For a moment, I see something real beneath her mask—something old and sharp and maybe a little sad.

“Interesting timing for that question.” She starts arranging items on a medical tray with mechanical precision. “Did our dear brother have a sharing moment during your bonding session?”

“Did they die?” I press, though talking makes my ribs scream.

“Define die.” She begins cleaning my wounds with methodical focus. “Technically, everyone dies eventually. Very inefficient system, mortality. I have spreadsheets.”

“Mona.”

“Fine.” She puts down the gauze, meeting my eyes with that unnervingly direct stare. “They’re not dead. They’re relocated. Underground. Hidden. Safe.” Her smile turns predatory. “Did you really think I’d play daddy’s game for this long without building my own pieces?”

Before I can process that, footsteps echo down the corridor. Heavy. Measured. Familiar.

“Shit.” Mona flows through shadow like water through cracks, her movements quick and deadly as poison as she gathers her supplies. “Daddy’s coming to check his experiment.”

Terror cuts through the fever. “Wait?—”

“Count to seventy-three,” she whispers, already melting into shadows. “I’ll be back. Try not to die while I’m gone. It would ruin all my data points.”

The footsteps grow closer as darkness claims me again. This time, my fever dreams taste like cherry medicine and betrayal, and I’m not sure which is worse.

Roman Sterling glides in like death in an expensive suit, each footfall a countdown to violence wrapped in silk and sophistication. The lights flicker on without warning, stabbing through my fever-sensitive eyes. Even through blurred vision, I can see how perfectly he’s crafted his appearance—expertly tailored suit, precisely styled hair, every detail calculated for maximum impact.

“Your temperature is elevated.” He consults a tablet, frowning at whatever data scrolls across its surface. “Alexander’s enthusiasm compromises the experiment’s parameters.”

I laugh, though it feels like swallowing glass. “Sorry daddy’s perfect alpha got carried away with the torture.”

---