Page 46 of Reckless: Corruption

My jaw aches from grinding my teeth, muscles bunched with the need to act when there’s nothing I can do. This is what real helplessness tastes like—watching my pack suffer while I, their alpha, stand useless as a decorative fucking statue.

The TV flickers with more death counts. More betas gone. More families shattered. I should turn it off, but there’s something appropriate about forcing myself to witness this particular failure. Sterling’s virus, targeting beta DNA markers with surgical precision while leaving alphas and omegas untouched, continues its decimation unchecked.

Three decisions wait for my call, each one potentially fatal if I choose wrong: divert resources to protect our location, pursue Sterling’s research files, or double down on Mona’s vaccine development. Military strategy says divide and conquer, but my pack is already stretched too thin. We have less than a week before we need to evacuate to the safe house Quinn is preparing—assuming we’re all healthy enough to move.

One wrong move, and I lose everything.

I check my watch—twenty minutes since I sent Mona back to the guest house, before I said something unforgivable. Logically, I know this virus isn’t her creation. But it carries her genetic signature along with her father’s—a Sterling family collaboration whether she intended it or not. She weakened it, yes. Turned it from automatic death sentence to merely probable.

Small fucking comfort as I watch Finn’s chest rise and fall too rapidly, his skin gone ashen beneath his freckles.

“Damnit.” The curse scrapes my throat raw as I resume pacing, wearing a path into the hardwood. Eight steps forward, pivot, eight steps back. The predictable rhythm should be calming, but all it does is highlight how trapped I feel.

Is this what Jinx deals with? This constant, crawling need to break something, to unleash violence on a target that doesn’t exist?

No wonder he’s on the roof right now, probably dismantling satellite dishes with his bare hands. At least that’s productive. I can hear him muttering security protocols to himself, the familiar cadence of his combat training a twisted lullaby above our heads.

I check on my betas one last time before heading toward the guest house. My mind says I need to assess Mona’s progress.

The alpha in me just wants to break something.

The guest house has transformed into something between a laboratory and a disaster zone. Equipment I don’t recognize hums on every surface, while half-eaten lollipops create a disturbing rainbow across what used to be my desk. Notes cover the walls—formula fragments, molecular diagrams, and what appears to be a detailed analysis of bee attack patterns. What the fuck that has to do with a vaccine, I have no idea.

Mona doesn’t acknowledge me, her focus absolute as she pipettes something between test tubes. Her hands move with surgical precision, at odds with the chaos around her. No hint of the manic energy she usually projects—just cold, methodical science.

“This is highly distracting,” she finally says without looking up. “Your alpha pheromones are disrupting the molecular bonding. Very inefficient. Much scientific interference.”

“Progress report.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Demanding.” She sets down her equipment with slow deliberation. “Also unnecessary. I work better without performance reviews. Very stifling. Much creativity inhibition.”

“Two of my pack are dying.” The words come out as a growl.

Something shifts in her expression—a flash of genuine emotion breaking through her calculated madness. “Not dying. Just extremely uncomfortable. I’ve adjusted the viral load through targeted antibody stimulation. Very precise. Much scientific innovation.”

She gestures to a whiteboard filled with formulas I can’t begin to comprehend. For all her quirks, there’s no denying the brilliance behind her chaos. The speed at which she’s constructed this lab, the methodical testing, the sheer volume of work—it speaks of dedication beyond mere obligation.

“How long?” I press.

“Until full recovery? Approximately seventy-two hours. Until vaccine viability? Unknown. Science requires patience. Also candy.” She unwraps a lollipop with meticulous focus. “Daddy’s formula was quite elegant, actually. Very precise genetic targeting of beta DNA markers. Much evolutionary consideration. The virus completely ignores alpha and omega genetic structures—immune systems don’t even register it as a threat.”

The casual way she discusses biological warfare should repulse me. Instead, I find myself studying her with new understanding. This isn’t just about saving Cayenne for her. This is personal.

“You’ve been fighting him for years.” It’s not a question.

“Obviously.” She doesn’t look up from her microscope. “Daddy tends to break his toys. I prefer to fix them.”

The revelation hits harder than expected. For all her calculated insanity, Mona Sterling might be the only person on earth with both the knowledge and motivation to undo Roman’s work.

“What do you need?” The question surprises even me.

She looks up then, something genuine breaking through her facade. “Better equipment. More blood samples. Full access to your medical supplies.” She pauses, lollipop hovering midair. “And possibly some more bees. For scientific verification. Also morale.”

“No bees.” But I’m already mentally cataloging what equipment we can acquire, what resources we can divert. “The rest is doable.”

She returns to her work, dismissing me without words. But as I turn to leave, her voice follows me, oddly sincere: “They won’t die. I’ve recalculated the probability sixteen times. Very thorough analysis. Much statistical consideration.”

It’s not quite reassurance, but coming from Mona, it might be as close as I’ll get so I walk away trusting her even if I don’t want to.

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