Page 45 of Reckless: Corruption

He makes another move, but it’s sloppy—a dangerous sacrifice of his queen that isn’t part of any strategy I’ve ever seen him use. It’s as if he’s forgotten the board between us, the game we’re playing, the code we’re breaking. Each move in the chess game mirrors his deterioration—strategic brilliance giving way to feverish impulse.

“Finn?” I study his face rather than the board, really seeing the strain now—the too-bright eyes, the slight flush across his cheekbones, the careful way he holds himself. My heightened beta senses pick up the wrongness now—the fever-sweet edge to his scent, the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

“Your move,” he says, but his gaze has fixed on something beyond the board, something only he can see.

“Did you take your temperature this morning?” I reach for his forehead, but he intercepts my hand, turning the gesture into another chess move.

“Check,” he murmurs, though his move doesn’t create any threat I can see.

The code on his laptop suddenly flashes green—access granted. The firewall has crumbled, revealing Sterling’s database. But I barely register the victory as Finn’s pupils dilate rapidly.

“Finn?” I set the chess board aside, pieces scattering across the blanket. “How long have you been sick?”

He tries to focus on me, but his eyes won’t track right. “Just need to... calculate the trajectory...”

Then his eyes roll back, and he starts to collapse.

“Finn!” I lunge for him, but my virus-weak muscles betray me. We both slide sideways on the couch, his head landing heavy in my lap. “No, no, no. THEO!”

My hands shake as I press against his burning forehead. The fever that’s been stalking him finally pounces, turning his skin to fire beneath my touch.

“RYKER! SOMEONE!”

Footsteps thunder from different directions. Theo appears first, his artist’s grace forgotten in his rush. His omega instincts take over immediately—he’s at Finn’s side in seconds, hands gentle but urgent as they check vitals, his purr starting automatically though it carries distressed undertones. I catch the strain in his movements, his own battle with suppressed heat making his hands shake even as he works.

Then Jinx, already snarling, his body vibrating with the need for action but finding no enemy to fight. His eyes dart around the room as if searching for something tangible to attack, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “What happened?” The question comes out more growl than words.

Ryker’s commanding presence fills the doorway last, his tactical mind already working—I can practically see him calculating options, weighing variables, prioritizing responses. Unlike Jinx’s chaotic energy, Ryker channels his concern into immediate organization. “Medical wing. Now. Theo, stabilize him. Jinx, clear a path.”

“He’s burning up.” The words catch in my throat. “He tried to hide it. I should have noticed sooner, I should have?—”

“Move.” Mona’s clinical voice cuts through my panic. When did she even get here? “Fascinating. The virus presents differently in males. Very interesting data points. Much research potential.”

“Mona!”

“Right. Sorry. Scientific observation later. Medical intervention now.” She produces a syringe from one of her endless pockets. “This should help with the fever. Probably. The research is ongoing.”

Theo helps shift Finn so Mona can access his arm. His skin burns against mine, fever painting him in shades of agony I know too well.

“Don’t you dare.” I grip his hand, chess pieces falling between us like forgotten possibilities. “Don’t you dare think about jumping without a parachute, you adrenaline junkie idiot.”

Through the fever haze, his fingers squeeze mine. Just once. Just enough.

“Get him to the medical wing.” Mona’s already moving, all pretense of chaos dropped in the face of genuine emergency. “Now.”

As they lift him, his head lolls toward me. His lips move, forming words I barely catch.

“Checkmate... in three.”

Then his eyes close, and I’m left holding nothing but scattered chess pieces and the echo of all the things we still need to say.

Chapter 12

Ryker

My grip tightenson the doorframe as another wave of moans echoes from the entertainment room. Control slips through my fingers like sand, each grain another problem I can’t solve. The room has become a sickbay—Finn and Cayenne sprawled on opposite ends of the sectional, both finally sleeping after Mona’s latest cocktail of “vitamins and probably some other things that are highly effective, very scientific, much healing potential.”

The distinct crackle of Jinx’s boots on the roof tiles above punctuates the silence between my own heartbeats. He’s been up there for hours, channeling his feral energy into perimeter checks rather than punching walls. Smart man.

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