Page 38 of Reckless: Corruption

The strange thing is, while the virus rages through my blood, it doesn’t feel like it’s changing me—not really. Instead, it’s like every beta sense I’ve ever had is amplifying, sharpening to painful clarity. I can smell the pack bonds in the air—not just scents, but the actual connections between us, like visible threads stretching through the room. It’s overwhelming, like someone cranked my beta perception to eleven without giving me the user manual.

Reality filters back through a fever-fog, my senses rebooting one painful surge at a time. First comes the weight—Theo’s bodycurled protectively around mine, his purr vibrating through my bones with healing frequencies that make my muscles slowly unclench. Then his scent wraps around me—dark vanilla and night-blooming jasmine weaving through notes of aged sheet music and something deeper, something that speaks of sanctuary. Pack scents layer beneath his—Jinx’s gunpowder and leather, Finn’s rain-washed calm, Ryker’s steadfast pine. They’ve all left their mark here, turning Theo’s nest into a fortress built of scent and safety.

From somewhere distant, I hear the measured cadence of boots on hardwood—Jinx patrolling, no doubt, his restlessness channeled into protection. The soft murmur of voices drifts through walls—Finn’s academic precision, Mona’s manic energy, their collaboration a strange symphony of order and chaos.

When I finally manage to pry my eyes open, Theo’s dark gaze captures mine. His pupils are blown wide with omega concern, a soft purr rumbling in his chest that seems to vibrate straight through my fever-wracked body.

Not an ounce of pity or judgment lives in that gaze—just the fierce, protective love of an omega who’s claimed you as his to heal. Even through the virus haze, I catch the way his hands twitch toward me, the slight tilt of his head that says he’s cataloging every hitched breath, every tremor. Artists see the world differently, and Theo sees me as a masterpiece worth restoring, no matter how broken.

I also notice something else—the barely perceptible tremor in his usually graceful hands, the slight flush high on his cheekbones that has nothing to do with exertion. He’s fighting something, containing it with the same precise control he brings to everything.

“Hey.” The word scrapes past my raw throat.

“Hey yourself.” His fingers brush sweaty hair from my face, the touch impossibly gentle. “How are you feeling?”

A groan escapes before I can stop it. How am I feeling? Like every cell in my body is being unmade and rewritten, Sterling’s virus playing god with my genetic code. My bones feel hollowed out and refilled with molten glass. Even breathing hurts, each inhale scraping my lungs raw, each exhale tasting of copper and something darker—something that whispers this isn’t just pain, this is transformation. My skin doesn’t feel like mine anymore, too tight and too loose all at once, like my body can’t decide if it’s being rebuilt or torn apart.

“All the things,” I manage.

He hums in response, the sound carrying notes of a lullaby I half-remember from fever dreams. No pressure, no demands—just presence, just anchor, just home.

“I’m sorry.” The words claw up my raw throat, tasting of copper and regret. My carefully constructed walls—the ones I built with code and cynicism and years of running—crumble like they’re made of fever dreams and glitter. I force myself to meet his eyes, to face what I did to him, to all of them. My vision blurs, and I can’t blame it entirely on the virus. “I’m so sorry I left. I thought—” My voice cracks. “I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was prove I’m still that girl who runs when things get real.”

“I understand why you did it.” His fingers trace my face again, though I’m pretty sure there’s no hair to brush away this time. The need to touch, to confirm I’m real, speaks louder than words. “I don’t like it. But I understand.”

“I couldn’t let you guys get hurt.” The words taste bitter now, my noble intentions crumbling in the face of what actually happened. My pack came for me anyway, walked straight into Sterling’s web because that’s what a pack does.

His lips quirk up at the edges, a smile carrying equal parts affection and exasperation. “You don’t give us enough credit.”

“You guys didn’t give me enough either.” The truth slips out soft but solid between us.

“Touché.” He presses a kiss to my fever-damp forehead before leaning his against mine. “We both made mistakes. But you know what?”

“What?” I whisper, trying to turn my face away because I’m pretty sure my breath could kill small animals right now.

“All of this could have been solved with a little communication.”

“Don’t come at me with logic.” The protest comes out as more of a whine.

He rubs his nose against mine, ignoring my attempt to spare him from my morning-after-fever breath. “Someone has to.”

“I fucked up.”

“You did.”

Those two words, delivered with such simple honesty, break something loose in my chest. “Where do we go from here?”

“One moment at a time.” His artist’s soul shows in the way he crafts each word. “Though you need to get better first.”

Exhaustion sweeps through me like a tidal wave, but I force my eyes to stay open. I’ve slept enough, lost enough time. “I’ll do my best.”

“Promise me you’ll talk next time.”

“You make it sound so easy.” My voice cracks on the words. “Communication.”

Those full lips of his—the ones that belong on renaissance statues—quirk up at the edges. When he kisses me, it’s gentle as watercolor, sweet as coming home.

Then he pulls back, nose wrinkling. “Your breath is terrible.”

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