Page 52 of Reckless: Corruption

The immediate needs of my pack must balance with the broader fight. Theo gets what he needs from me now, while Mona works on saving our betas. Meanwhile, Jinx will secure our backup location, and I’ll coordinate with Quinn to track Sterling’s movements.

The decisions crystallize with surprising clarity—trust the chaos scientist, prepare for war, protect what’s mine. Sometimes the hardest part of leadership is acknowledging when someone else holds the key to victory.

For this moment, with my omega safe in my arms, I allow myself to believe that everything will be okay. That we will all survive this.

That life, somehow, will go on.

Chapter 13

Cayenne

The virus givesme strange dreams—binary code waterfalls and glitter tornadoes that seem to make perfect sense until I wake. This time, consciousness returns with the taste of Mona’s latest“improved formula, very precise measurements, minimal chance of hallucinations”still metallic on my tongue. The injection site on my arm throbs in time with my pulse, but the fog in my head has lifted enough to form coherent thoughts.

First thought, Finn is worse than I am.

Second thought, I need to do something about it.

Third thought, We have less than a week before we need to relocate to the safe house, and at this rate, Finn won’t be strong enough to move.

I push myself up from the couch where I’ve been stationed for monitoring, testing each muscle group with cautious precision. The fever still simmers under my skin, but it’s different now—more like background noise than the all-consuming fire of days past. Mona’s cocktail is actually working, at least enough to function.

My enhanced beta senses—another unexpectedgiftfrom the virus—pick up movement throughout the house. Distant footsteps pace the third floor—probably Ryker, his movementsheavier with pre-rut tension as Theo’s heat approaches. My nose catches the change in scents too, Theo’s sweet vanilla deepening to something headier that even my beta biology can detect through multiple floors.

Speaking of my chaos-theory sister...

“You shouldn’t be vertical,” Mona announces from the doorway. Her clinical gaze sweeps over me, cataloging symptoms with that disturbing blend of scientific detachment and sisterly concern. “Your cellular regeneration requires approximately twelve more hours of horizontal rest. Very precise calculations. Much statistical certainty.”

“I’m fine.” I swing my legs over the edge, ignoring the room’s slight tilt. “How’s Finn?”

“Stable. Also unconscious. Much fever. Very concerning viral replication patterns.” She unwraps a lollipop with mechanical precision. “Though my updated treatment protocol is showing promising results. More data required. Also more candy.”

Her clinical assessment doesn’t quite hide the worry beneath. For all her calculated madness, Mona’s grown attached to the pack with surprising speed. I catch it in the slight tightness around her eyes, the way she keeps checking her Hello Kitty watch at precise intervals.

“So where is it?” I ask, forcing myself to stand. My legs wobble but hold.

Mona’s head tilts, that particular angle that says she’s trying to predict where my chaos will intersect with hers. “Where is what?”

“Whatever you need that you can’t get yourself.” I take a tentative step forward. “Come on, Mona. You’ve been pacing for the past hour. You keep checking that tablet. What’s missing from your mad scientist toolkit?”

For a moment, her mask slips—calculation replacing chaos. “Sterling’s secondary research facility holds specific viralsamples. Very specialized. Much scientific value.” She produces her tablet from an impossibly small pocket. “Without them, vaccine development remains at suboptimal efficiency. Also, your beta has significantly less recovery probability.”

My heart stutters. “Less recovery probability. You mean?—”

“Death?” She considers the word like she’s tasting it. “Mm, no. More like prolonged suffering. Extensive neurological impact. Potentially permanent immunological compromise.” She catches my expression and adds, “So, worse than death. According to most subjective experience surveys. I have charts.”

“Tell me about the secondary facility.” I move toward the kitchen, my body demanding calories despite everything.

“Don’t you think you should?—”

“Mona.” I turn, meeting her calculating gaze head-on. “Finn is getting worse. You need something from Sterling’s lab. I’m feeling better. Do the math.”

A small smile curves her lips—genuine, not her usual performance art. “The math does yield interesting probabilities.” She follows me to the kitchen, tablet already displaying what looks like security schematics. “The secondary facility houses prototype variations. Very specialized research. Much genetic specificity.”

“And you need...” I prompt, rummaging for anything that might settle my still-uneasy stomach.

“These.” She pulls up molecular diagrams that mean nothing to me but clearly represent salvation to her. “Viral inhibitor compounds. Daddy developed them as a failsafe. Very precise application. Much scientific prudence.”

“He created an antidote before releasing the virus?” I grab an apple, the simple action requiring more concentration than it should.

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