Page 40 of Reckless: Corruption

“Yep. They went together.” Something like admiration colors his voice. “She finally passed out on the floor trying to assemble something with far too many parts.”

“Thank you.” The words carry more weight than just gratitude for information.

“For what?”

“Bringing her.” The admission feels raw, necessary. “I know she’s... traumatized and different. But I couldn’t leave her there.”

“You’re welcome. I just hope she doesn’t catch anything on fire. Again.”

“What?” The word comes out as a squeak. “It’s only been twelve hours!”

“And that is a lot of time for your sister to cause damage.” His smile grows. “We moved her to the guest house, by the way.”

“That’s best.” I let my head rest on his shoulder, exhaustion winning again.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs against my hair.

“I need to shower.” I don’t move though, my body betraying my words as it melts further into his warmth. “I feel disgusting.”

“Thought you’d say that.” His lips brush my temple. “I have my bath prepared. Haven’t run the water yet, but I have salts. Mona approved them all.”

A laugh bubbles up, weak but real. They really do care for me—not just saving me, but saving my sister, accepting her chaos into their carefully ordered world. The magnitude of it hums under my skin, a truth neither of us is ready to name but both feel building.

“That sounds incredible.” My voice cracks. “Help me up?”

Instead of just supporting me, Theo sweeps me into his arms. I barely have enough strength to lift my head from his chest as he carries me to his ridiculous bathroom—the one I used to tease him about, but now seems like salvation.

The journey from nest to bath is a sensory experience I never expected to cherish. The cooler air of the hallway raises goosebumps on my fever-hot skin, making me curl closer into Theo’s warmth. His heartbeat thrums against my ear, steady and sure, a rhythm I could compose a symphony around. The bathroom transforms as we enter—warmth enveloping us as steam rises from the massive tub, scented oils cutting throughthe lingering scent of antiseptic and fever. The transition from soft blankets to cool air to warm sanctuary feels like moving through different movements of a piece only Theo could compose—each shift deliberate, measured, designed to heal.

“I’ll have one of the guys change the sheets,” he says, settling me onto the plush chair in the corner.

“I’m—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out gentle but firm. “Let us take care of you.” His voice carries that particular omega tone that bypasses all my defenses, hitting something primal and touch-starved. “I know you run. I know you fight. But sometimes...” His fingers find my pulse, counting beats like measuring music. “Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let yourself be caught.”

“So says the omega who fled his own gilded cage.” But even as I say it, I’m leaning into his touch, my body betraying years of careful independence. Maybe we’re both learning—him to turn chains into choice, me to turn running into returning.

“Damn straight.” He moves with fluid grace, starting the water, adding various potions that fill the air with healing scents.

I look down at myself, really seeing the damage for the first time. I’m wearing only a t-shirt that smells suspiciously like Jinx—whose beanie I lost, another problem for another day. Blood cakes various parts of my skin, and the bruises... God, the bruises. My fingers trace one on my thigh, so dark it’s almost black, edges more defined than any I’ve ever had. I can’t even remember which blow caused this particular masterpiece in Alexander’s gallery of violence.

A soft thud draws my attention. Theo stands there, shirtless, pants pooled at his feet, wearing nothing but boxers. He blows out a breath like he’s steadying himself, then kneels before me. His fingers shake slightly as they find the hem of my borrowed shirt.

“You don’t?—”

“I do.” The words carry weight beyond their simplicity. “I do.”

With infinite care, he peels the shirt upward. Each inch revealed maps a history of violence—here’s where Alexander’s knife found home, there’s where his rage painted purple galaxies across my ribs. The fabric catches on half-healed wounds, pulling small sounds of pain from my throat that make Theo’s hands tremble against my skin. When the shirt finally clears my head, his sharp intake of breath says everything his artist’s soul can’t voice—this canvas of bruises and blood tells a story neither of us wanted written.

“Will you wash my hair?” The request comes out small, desperate to pull his attention from cataloging each mark of violence.

Those chocolate eyes snap to mine, something fierce and tender warring in their depths. He just nods, lifting me with such gentle precision that my heart threatens to shatter.

He steps into the bath still holding me, lowering us both into water that smells of healing herbs and omega comfort.

“Oh, that’s nice.” The warmth seeps into my bones, drawing out some of the virus’s lingering chill.

“Your back piece...” His artist’s fingers trace the infinity symbol that spans my shoulder blades, binary code wrapping around it like a prayer written in ones and zeros. Each touch maps the amateur lines, the places where ink bled too deep or not deep enough. “Beautiful concept. Terrible execution. He scarred you here, see?” His touch gentles over a raised line. “Went too deep, trying to correct a shaky hand.”

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