Page 5 of Reckless: Corruption

“That disturbs me.” A laugh bubbles up despite everything, painful against my dry throat. “I am clearly not.”

“Clearly.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

She just blinks at me, her stare reminiscent of a cat deciding whether to play with its food. The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before she gives an almost imperceptible nod.

“How are you a daddy’s girl?”

The sigh she lets out is an art form—part annoyance, part dramatic flair, all barely concealed trauma. Her shoulders rise and fall in exaggerated motion, the most emotion she’s shown yet. “I know my father is a terrible man. The packs he choosesare like him. I don’t want that. So for ten years I’ve done nothing but ruin them.”

“That doesn’t explain how you’re daddy’s girl.” I shift forward, wincing as dried blood pulls at my skin where it’s adhered to my shirt.

“I know.” The blandness of her tone suggests both boredom and warning. Like everything about Mona, there are layers here. She might be daddy’s girl now, but the haunted edges around her eyes tell a different story about before. About what it took to carve out even this small freedom.

“Tell me how.”

“How what?”

“How you ruin them.” I shift against the cold wall, finding a slightly less uncomfortable position. My fascination momentarily outweighs my discomfort. “I’m bored and I love stories.”

She grips her seat, knuckles whitening, a disturbing smirk playing across her features. Oh yes, I definitely like my sister. There’s something deliciously unhinged about her, like a bomb wrapped in silk. For the first time, animation creeps into her voice, a spark of genuine feeling breaking through her monotone.

“There was this one pack daddy picked.” The way she says daddy should disturb me more than it does, the word laced with mockery rather than affection. “Diplomats from South America.” Her smirk grows, taking on an edge of pride. “I went to live with them for a week to let them court me. I stole a quarter million and a Mercedes. Crashed it into a tree and got lost in a jungle for a week before they found me.”

The laugh that escapes me hurts my ribs, but I can’t contain it. “You’re absolutely insane.”

“I can tell you more.” The excitement in her voice carries notes of something darker—like she’s never had anyone toshare these stories with before. Never had anyone who might understand the beauty of her chaos. Her body language shifts subtly, leaning forward, hands gesturing in small, precise movements that belie her deadpan delivery.

“Tell me everything.” I mirror her posture despite my pain, drawn into her orbit by the gravitational pull of shared rebellion.

“Daddy throws these omega balls. They’re for me, but I hate them.” Her nose wrinkles slightly, the first truly natural expression I’ve seen on her face.

“Ah yes, you hate everyone.”

“You’re catching on.” That disturbing smirk again, like we’re sharing secrets at a slumber party in hell. “Too many alphas and omegas. No betas allowed except in the kitchen. The last one, he set me up with this pack. I lured them into the maze and left them there. I know the way out, of course, but I didn’t leave. I stayed hidden, listening to their cries.”

“A morbid feminist. I like it.” My smile feels sharp enough to cut, a perfect match to hers. There’s something intoxicating about finding someone who understands the dark satisfaction of creating chaos in systems designed to contain you.

“I like the sound of men crying.”

Oh yeah, she is so traumatized. But who wouldn’t be, growing up as Sterling’s omega daughter?

In the distance, a heavy door groans open, the sound echoing through stone corridors like a death knell. Metal scrapes against metal, followed by the measured cadence of approaching footsteps. My heart rate spikes, fight-or-flight instincts screaming through my exhausted body.

Mona’s posture changes instantly, animation draining away like water down a drain. “I have to go.” This sigh is different—genuine regret, as though she’s actually enjoyed our twisted bonding session. She stands abruptly, chair legs scraping against concrete.

“Pity. We were just getting to know each other.” I’m surprised by how much I mean it. For all her disturbing edges, there’s something compelling about Mona—a kindred spirit forged in the same toxic crucible.

“Is it true you don’t feel pain?” The words rush out, urgent now. For the first time, concern flickers across her features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

“Excuse me?”

“You have red hair. It’s natural, right?” Her eyes focus on my tangled locks, currently matted with blood and sweat. “Redheads don’t feel pain.”

“Yes...” I draw out the word, suddenly unsure which question I’m actually answering. Cold understanding creeps through me, a new kind of dread that has nothing to do with hunger or isolation.

“Daddy is going to test that theory.” She stands, looking down at me with dead eyes that hold something almost like concern. “Don’t die.”

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