Page 41 of Reckless: Corruption

A laugh bubbles up, half pain and half memory. “Basement in Seattle. Guy spent more time trying to get my number than keeping his lines straight. I think I hacked his credit score later, just to prove a point.”

“The code,” Theo murmurs, still mapping my skin like he’s already planning improvements. “It’s not random, is it?”

“First program I ever wrote.” The admission feels heavy, intimate. “The one that taught me I could rewrite my own story.”

His purr deepens, understanding written in the way his fingers linger over each digit. This is what pack means—someone who reads the stories written on your skin and helps you turn the broken parts into something beautiful.

“I could fix it.” His touch becomes more purposeful, artist’s hands mapping possibilities. “Add depth here, sharpen the edges. Make the code actually readable instead of just decorative.”

“Your tattoos,” I murmur, noticing how the water makes the ink on his skin seem to dance. “I never got to ask about them.”

A small smile plays at his lips as he reaches for the shampoo. “The cherry blossoms on my ribs were my first act of rebellion. The musical staff on my ankle came after my first successful escape attempt.”

“They’re beautiful.” I mean more than just the art—I mean the strength behind them, the story of survival written in ink.

“I have more planned,” he says, his hands gentle in my hair. “Designs that tell new stories. Better ones.”

The way he says it—like he’s looking forward now instead of back, like he’s writing his own story instead of the one his parents tried to force on him—makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“Tell me about them?” The water makes his ink dance, stories shifting and flowing across olive skin. Here’s rebellion in cherry blossoms, there’s survival in musical staffs. Each piece feels like a confession written in permanent ink.

His fingers work through my hair with the same care he uses for his art, turning basic hygiene into something sacred. “The one I want next...” He pauses, gathering thoughts like hegathers stray strands of my hair. “It’s about chosen family. About how pack bonds aren’t written in blood or biology.” Water runs down my neck as he rinses, his touch saying all the things we’re both still learning to voice. “About how sometimes the strongest bonds are forged in broken places.”

The intimacy of it—him sharing art not yet created, me letting someone else wash away days of fever and fear—makes my throat tight. We’re both touch-starved survivors learning to trust gentle hands. Both running from gilded cages toward something wild and real.

His fingers massage my scalp, and I practically melt. The simple comfort of being cared for, of letting someone else take the weight for a moment, overwhelms me.

“That’s what we are, isn’t it?” I manage through the haze of comfort. “A pack that breaks all the rules.”

“A beta who leads with her heart. An omega who turns violence into art. Two alphas who protect instead of possess. And a beta who calculates chaos into order.” His voice carries warmth and pride. “We’re something new.”

“Something better.”

“Yes.” He begins rinsing my hair, each movement measured to keep soap from my eyes. “Though your sister might force us to add a new category entirely.”

A laugh bubbles up. “Chaos theorist with a candy addiction?”

“More like omega who terrorizes other packs through advanced mathematics. Very specific category.”

The water begins to cool, but I’m not ready to leave this moment of peace. Here, wrapped in Theo’s care, the virus feels distant. The weight of Sterling’s legacy, of Alexander’s violence, of everything that came before—it all fades against the simple truth of being home.

From somewhere beyond the bathroom door, I hear distant sounds that somehow comfort rather than intrude—Finn’s voicecarrying academic passion as he discusses formula variations with someone (probably Mona), the rhythmic tread of Ryker’s boots as he checks perimeter sensors, the creak of floorboards that signals Jinx’s perpetual motion.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“For seeing me. All of me. Even the broken parts.”

His arms tighten around me. “There’s nothing broken about you, piccola. You’re just becoming something stronger.”

“We should get you back to the nest,” he murmurs as the water turns tepid. “Your fever’s starting to rise again.”

I want to protest, to stay in this perfect bubble of peace we’ve created, but my body betrays me with a shiver. The virus still burns through my blood, reminding me that recovery isn’t a straight line.

“One condition,” I manage as he helps me from the bath, wrapping me in a towel that smells of him.

“Hm?”

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