Page 68 of Reckless: Corruption

My purr cuts off mid-vibration like a bow dragged harshly across violin strings.

Mona’s injection has dampened the worst symptoms, but every sense remains dialed to eleven. Acrid smoke scrapes my nose raw. Distant shouts become stadium roar. Sheets that felt like silk minutes ago now rasp against my skin like cheap polyester.

Through my window, orange light pulses from the guest house. Not quite flames, but definitely not normal. I’m on my feet before thought catches up to reflex, the omega in me running sensory diagnostics—categorizing every scent, sound, and shift in air pressure with primal precision.

“I said it was a CONTROLLED REACTION!” Mona’s voice carries across the lawn, her scientific outrage unmistakable even at a distance. “Very precise scientific intent!”

“There’s nothing controlled about setting fire to my fucking geraniums!” Ryker’s alpha command vibrates through night air, bass notes sending tremors up through my bare feet. My body responds automatically, a shiver racing my spine despite the absurdity.

By the time I reach them, Jinx is hosing down what remains of Ryker’s prized garden, movements oscillating between deadly grace and controlled violence. Finn stands nearby, tablet clutched in one hand, face locked in that particular expression of stoic resignation that makes him look like a Renaissance painting titledMan Contemplating Poor Life Choices.Cayenneleans against a tree, caught between laughter and exhaustion, her face illuminated in irregular flashes that paint her in dramatic contrast.

Mona stands center stage, lab coat singed at edges, hair wild but expression completely unrepentant. She gestures with hands stained colors science hasn’t named yet, chemical rainbows trapped under her nails.

“The geraniums were an acceptable sacrifice for scientific progress,” she declares with absolute conviction. Her head tilts, studying the smoking remains. “Also, they were ugly. I’ve done you a favor.”

Ryker looks one snarky comment away from aneurysm. Steam practically rises from his skin as he looms over Mona’s smaller frame, control stretched wire-thin. “What. Happened.”

“I needed to synthesize a particular compound.” She dismisses the smoldering patio with a flick of rainbow-stained fingers. “The reaction was slightly more... enthusiastic than my calculations predicted. Fascinating outcome, really.”

I step closer, each movement deliberately composed as Mona’s suppressant battles my biology. “Is everyone okay?”

Five heads snap toward me. Instant mistake.

Despite Mona’s injection, my heat-scent blooms around me—muted but unmistakable. Dark vanilla deepened to incense. Night-blooming jasmine turned heavier, sexual. I watch them register the change, bodies responding in primal choreography older than civilization.

Ryker’s pupils dilate. Black swallows gray until only thin rings remain. His stance shifts toward me like a flower tracking the sun. Nostrils flare as he inhales, conflict playing across his features—alpha protection warring with desire, duty battling instinct. Fingers twitch at his sides, muscle-memory of touches we’ve shared during countless heats.

“Theo.” Just my name, but layered with meaning—concern, desire, reminder of private moments, silent understanding we’ve built through shared vulnerability. He closes the distance with controlled steps, hand finding the small of my back in gesture both possessive and supportive.

Jinx inhales sharply, head tilting predatorily. Finn steps back, beta caution warring with attraction as he creates careful distance.

And Mona? Her entire being lights up like a Christmas tree.

“The new suppressant is functioning within parameters!” She claps her hands with scientific delight. “Pheromone control showing expected attenuation pattern.”

“Nobody is researching Theo.” Cayenne steps protectively closer, movement sharp against the fluid backdrop of night. The proximity brings her into shifting light, revealing what my sensitive nose has already detected—subtle shift in her scent, new note playing beneath familiar citrus and ozone. Something that makes my omega instincts tilt their head in confusion.

Jinx freezes mid-motion, abandoning the hose as he moves toward Cayenne with predatory focus. “You smell...” He inhales deeply, confusion transforming his features. “Different. More... omega-y. But not quite.” His brow furrows in concentration. “It’s like... if an omega was wearing beta perfume. Or if a beta rolled around in omega sheets.”

Cayenne steps back. “Okay, personal space much?”

“Not bad different,” Jinx clarifies, circling her once like a wolf scenting anomaly. “It’s like your beta scent has omega undertones now. Something that shouldn’t exist, but does.”

“The virus is altering her pheromone profile,” Finn observes quietly, his analytical mind already processing the implications.

Mona bounces on her toes, excitement building visibly like pressure in sealed chamber. “Is it happening already? Thepheromone shift? I predicted at least two more days before noticeable changes!”

“What pheromone shift?” Ryker’s voice cuts through chaos, alpha command momentarily overriding his garden rage. His arm tightens protectively around my waist, silent communication that despite new developments, he remains acutely aware of my condition.

“The virus is altering her scent profile,” Mona explains, already scribbling notes with the speed of someone afraid thoughts might evaporate before being captured. “Temporary designation disruption.”

Cayenne’s expression cycles through emotions like browser tabs opening too fast, finally crashing on horror. “I’m sorry, I’m what now?”

“You smell like omega,” Jinx blurts, then shakes his head, frustration evident. “But not. Like... omega-lite. Diet omega. I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-omega.”

A laugh escapes me despite everything. The sound startles even me—bright note in tense composition. Jinx looks genuinely confused, caught between alpha instincts and logical brain understanding that Cayenne remains beta, his dangerous demeanor transformed into something almost innocent.

Cayenne sniffs her arm experimentally, then makes a face like someone discovering mystery stain on favorite shirt. “I don’t smell any different.”

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