Page 48 of Reckless: Corruption

His lower lip trembles, a vulnerability he rarely shows. “They smell like sick.” The distress in his voice would be clear even without our bond pulsing with his discomfort. “I can’t...”

The whine that escapes him breaks something loose in my chest. I gather him close, letting him bury his face against the junction of my neck and shoulder where my scent is strongest.

“It’s okay,” I soothe, understanding flooding through me. At his core, Theo is still an omega, and his most sacred space has been contaminated with the scent of illness and fear. He’d never regret caring for Cayenne, but the nest violated feels like salt in an already raw wound.

“Let me take care of it,” I murmur into his hair, holding him until the trembling subsides.

He nods against my shoulder, silent permission.

I gather the sheets and toss them into the hall, returning for the blankets when he whispers, “Those too.”

Soon, the nest is stripped bare except for the mattress. “Keep or wash the sheets and blankets?” I ask, knowing some omegas can never feel right about textiles once they’ve been tainted.

His eyes fill, tears spilling over as he shakes his head.

“Toss,” I translate, kneeling before him again. “This is why we buy in bulk. This is why we scent all new blankets.” I tip his chin up, making him meet my eyes. “We can wash the clothing and have the others wear them again to re-scent them. Alright?”

He nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Mattresses?” I check, always thorough.

“They’re okay.” He bends, burying his face against the bare surface. Anyone else might find the gesture strange, but I follow suit, my alpha senses confirming what his omega already knows—the illness hasn’t penetrated this deep.

I move to the wall of cabinets where we keep supplies, grabbing the cleaning spray that neutralizes scents without chemicals that might trigger his increasingly sensitive nose. Then I pull out a sheet already carrying my scent from the last time it was used.

His sigh of contentment as I spread it over the mattress sends warmth spreading through my chest. But the sweat beading on his forehead reminds me that we’re fighting against time—suppressants or not, his heat is coming.

I grab a fresh blanket, tossing it down before returning to him. “You need me,” I state, simple truth.

“They need you,” he counters, stubborn to his core.

I capture his wrists, holding them behind his back—not to restrain, but to ground. “Theo.”

“Ryker, Cayenne and Finn?—”

“Are sleeping,” I counter, voice firm but gentle. “There is nothing more we can do for them right now.”

He drops his head against my shoulder, a small whine escaping him. “How long does it take these to work?”

I suppress a humorless laugh at the irony—my omega, who rebelled against arranged mating by fleeing halfway across the world, now desperate for suppressants to function properly. “Let me take care of you.”

“It feels wrong,” he argues, though his body presses closer, seeking relief only an alpha can provide.

“Why does it feel wrong to live?” I challenge. “To take what you need?”

“They’re down there sick and maybe?—”

I cut him off with a kiss, stealing his words and his fears. I can feel them through our bond and scent them in the air—the guilt, the worry, the conviction that he should suffer while others do.

His hands twist in my grip, not to escape but to hold tight. When I finally release his mouth, his pupils have dilated further, the fever of approaching heat sharpening every line of his body.

“Ryker,” he whispers, my name becoming both plea and permission.

“I’ve got you.” I release his wrists, my hands finding his face instead. “I’ll always have you.”

“And them?” The question carries all his fears—that they might not survive, that the pack might fracture, that the carefully constructed harmony we’ve built could shatter.

“And them,” I promise. “All of them. But right now, you need to let me take care of you.”

---