Page 37 of Reckless: Corruption

“You’ve been destroying his work from the inside,” Finn says.

“Science is delicate. A misplaced decimal, contaminated samples, mathematical errors that only appear three steps into an equation. It’s amazing how catastrophic such small changes can be when applied consistently over years.”

“For how long?” Ryker asks.

“Since I learned that marble stairs have predictable stress fracture patterns at age eleven. The diagrams I created were quite detailed. Alexander’s knee never did heal properly after his unfortunate accident.”

“You’ve been playing the unstable omega while systematically dismantling everything he built,” I say.

“Playing implies fiction. I channeled my damage into something productive. The destruction became both therapy and revolution.” She examines a lollipop like it might hold secrets. “His research was fundamentally flawed anyway. No proper control groups. Peer review conducted by terrified subordinates. The scientific community would be appalled if they knew. And they will.”

“And Cayenne?” Jinx asks.

“An unexpected variable that disrupted established patterns in ways even I couldn’t predict. Her chaos potential exceeds standard modeling parameters.” Her smile carries genuine warmth briefly. “Plus she appreciated my methodology. Do you know how rare that is? Most people just scream about the bees.”

The antiseptic scent makes my skin crawl. My omega instincts demand I get Cayenne somewhere safe, somewhere that smells like pack instead of medical steel.

“She needs the nest.” The words tear from my throat in a sound that’s half-growl, half-keen. I meet Ryker’s eyes directly—a challenge I’d never have attempted in my family’s pack, where omegas kept their eyes down and spoke only when permitted.

Ryker’s jaw tightens, but he nods, deferring to my judgment. That gesture—an alpha yielding to an omega—still feels revolutionary after years of conditioning.

“The medical equipment—” Mona starts, but something in my expression makes her pause.

“Enough.” I gather Cayenne into my arms. “You can set up your lab. Color-code everything. Build your chaos. But she needs pack right now.”

As I carry her to the nest, dizziness hits me—another suppressant side effect. I steady myself against the wall, hopingthe others attribute it to Cayenne’s weight rather than my chemical battle.

She stirs as we settle her into the nest’s soft depths. “Theo?”

“Rest, piccola.” I curl around her, feeling every fever-shaken breath. My purr deepens, carrying promises of safety in its vibration.

The pack arranges themselves with instinctive precision—Finn pressed against her back, his fingers tracing binary patterns against her skin; Jinx at our feet, his chaos harnessed into protective vigilance; Ryker standing guard at the doorway, his alpha presence a shield.

“Your pack dynamics defy traditional hierarchical models,” Mona observes from the doorway. “The implications for designation theory alone would make for a revolutionary paper.”

“Get out.”

“Fine. Science waits for no one, and I have experiments that require my attention.” She pauses. “Just keep her temperature below hundred and four. Above that, the hallucinations become remarkably creative, though my documentation on the subject is quite thorough?—”

“Out.”

When Mona’s footsteps fade, my protective instincts finally break free. My purr deepens to frequencies that make the air vibrate, my body curling around Cayenne until every point of contact hums with healing intent.

“The fever has to break on its own,” Finn murmurs, checking her pulse.

I nod, beginning the lullaby my mother used to sing about storms and shelter. Here in this sanctuary built from music and memory, our scents mingle like a perfect chord—dark vanilla and leather, gunpowder and rain—all creating a symphony of safety around our wounded beta.

For now, I push aside thoughts of my ticking clock—the seven pills between control and chaos. Let Mona have her science. In this nest built from sheet music and survival, we’ll heal Cayenne our way—with touch and tone and the certainty that she’s ours to protect.

Chapter 10

Cayenne

Fever dreams tastelike glitter and confusion.

Reality fractures and reforms—one moment I’m drowning in sparkles, the next I’m arguing chaos theory with a unicorn whose military posture screams Ryker even before it opens its mouth to lecture about proper rainbow trajectory angles. The fever makes everything too bright, too sharp, my skin feeling like it might shed sparkles if anyone touches it. Even my thoughts leave glitter trails, scattered and shining and wrong.

This has to be the virus talking. Or possibly Mona’s influence. The line between those two forms of chaos grows thinner by the second.

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