Page 29 of Reckless: Corruption

“The network—how big is it?” I press, sensing a blueprint behind her chaos.

“Thirty-eight former Sterling employees. Seventeen research subjects. Four pack doctors who asked too many questions. Three former government inspectors.” Her eyes hold something like pride beneath the calculation. “All with new identities. All connected through coded communication channels. All waiting for the signal.”

The new injection burns, but differently than Roman’s virus. Clean somehow. Like fire burning out infection.

“Also,” she adds, disposing of the syringe with mechanical precision, “your pack is coming. Very dramatic rescue operation planned. I have opinions about their tactical approach, but that’s irrelevant right now.”

My heart stutters, an ache blossoming that has nothing to do with the virus. An image of Ryker planning the assault flashes through my mind—his jaw set in that way that means someone’s going to regret crossing him. Jinx, vibrating with the kind of focused violence he usually tries to contain. Finn calculating every variable, every possibility, the way his eyes get when he’ssolving problems no one else can see. And Theo, probably using his omega gifts to keep them all from charging in without a plan.

“They’re really coming? All of them?” The question comes out smaller than I intended, weighted with more than just the need for rescue. “How do you?—”

“I know everything.” She starts arranging cough drop wrappers into what looks suspiciously like building schematics.

“I color-code my murderous impulses,” Mona announces, still arranging cough drop wrappers with disturbing precision. “Red for arson-related solutions. Blue for drowning potential pack suitors. Purple for poison, obviously. Very systematic.”

Despite the fire in my veins, I find myself asking, “What color is helping your sister escape?”

“Chartreuse.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s an unpleasant color for an unpleasant situation. Also, it annoys Alexander because he can never pronounce it right.”

I try to push myself up, immediately regretting it as the room spins. “Why do you do that?”

“Annoy Alexander? Because it’s fun. Also therapeutic. I have charts.”

“No.” The word comes out rough. “Why do you hide how smart you are behind the crazy?”

Her movements still, that artificial chaos going quiet. For a moment, I see something real—calculation sharp as a scalpel, wit honed into a weapon.

“People expect the omega daughter to be unstable,” she says finally, each word precise. “Daddy’s broken little girl, playing with candy and setting fires. They never look deeper. Never see the pattern in the chaos.”

Her smile turns razor-sharp. “Amazing what you can accomplish when everyone’s watching for the wrong kind of dangerous.”

“Like building an underground network.”

“Hypothetically.” She resumes her wrapper arrangement. “Also hypothetically, certain research notes might have been systematically altered over the years. Certain formulas corrupted. Certain results skewed just enough to be useless without anyone noticing.”

Understanding dawns through the fever haze. “You’ve been sabotaging him.”

“I’ve been surviving him,” she corrects. “There’s a difference. Survival requires precision. Planning. Very detailed spreadsheets.” She meets my eyes. “The others didn’t die, Cayenne. They’re part of the plan. A very long, very elaborate plan that you’re currently bleeding all over.”

“What plan?”

Her laugh holds no humor. “The one where we burn everything our father built to the ground. Metaphorically. Probably literally. I’m flexible about the methodology.”

“Sleep,” Mona says, her usual manic energy softening just slightly. “Your pack should be receiving my little mathematical breadcrumbs by now. Very precise coordinates. Extremely specific timing windows.”

My eyes grow heavy as whatever cocktail of drugs she’s given me takes hold. “You’re helping them find me?”

“I’m helping them be useful,” she corrects. “They’re very good at violence. It would be wasteful not to utilize that particular skill set.”

Through increasingly blurred vision, I watch her methodically destroy evidence of her presence—wrappers, bandages, every trace that she was ever here.

“Your virus symptoms should peak in exactly six hours,” she continues, movements precise. “Very convenient timing. I have charts.”

“Why are you really helping me?”

She pauses at the door, that artificial mania dropping away completely. For just a moment, I see the real Mona Sterling—brilliant, dangerous, and absolutely lethal.

“Because sometimes the most dangerous weapon isn’t the one that looks scary.” She flicks off the lights. “Sometimes it’s the broken little omega with really good math skills and a hobby of collecting other people’s monsters.”

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