Page 69 of Reckless: Corruption

“You wouldn’t,” Finn explains, voice gentle with empathy. “Just like we can’t detect our own standard scents clearly.” He approaches cautiously, movements revealing his continued recovery through subtle hitches.

Jinx circles her again, making another pass with his nose, movements an absurd ballet of confusion. “It’s like... if an omega and beta had a baby. But not quite. More like if an omega sneezed on a beta.”

“That’s disgusting,” Cayenne informs him flatly, though amusement dances in her eyes, counterpoint to verbal disgust.

“Your descriptive capabilities are truly breathtaking,” Finn deadpans, tension in his shoulders betraying casual tone.

I step closer to Cayenne, movements deliberately graceful despite dual battle of heat and suppressant within. My sensitive omega nose catches nuances others might miss, breathing her in like sommelier samples vintage. The familiar citrus and ozone baseline remains, but beneath it plays new harmony—subtle but unmistakable.

I see Jinx’s claiming mark on her neck, fresh and healing. With boldness that surprises even me, I let my tongue trace its edges, tasting the bond forming between them. Cayenne’s small gasp is only acknowledgement, her body leaning slightly into the touch despite surprise.

“It’s subtle,” I confirm, voice pitched lower than usual as heat strains vocal cords despite Mona’s intervention. “Like hearing familiar melody played by different instrument. Still recognizable, but with new overtones.”

“Well, whatever’s happening needs to unhappen,” Cayenne declares, eyeing Jinx as he continues circling her like confused predator. “This is creepy.”

“Impossible,” Mona interjects, excitement making her bounce. “The virus is altering your pheromone production temporarily.” She scribbles more notes, pencil scratching like vinyl static. “Though the speed of onset suggests viral replication is accelerating.”

“Can we focus on the explosion?” Ryker gestures at the smoking patio, embers glowing like dying fireflies. His hand remains pressed against my lower back, grounding me even as his attention divides between crisis and my condition. His fingers flex occasionally against my skin, subtle tell of how awarehe is of my heat, how much effort focusing on practical matters costs him.

Mona rolls her eyes with her entire body, physical manifestation of disdain. “So dramatic. It was barely a kiloton of force.”

“Why,” Ryker grits through clenched teeth, each word precisely aimed, “were you creating explosions at all?”

“I needed to synthesize a particular compound for the vaccine.” Mona counts on her fingers, movements hypnotic in shifting light. “Which requires specialized equipment. Which we don’t have. Because someone won’t let me order it online. Because someone is paranoid about tracking. Which means improvisation. Which sometimes results in minor thermal excitements.”

“You made homemade explosives,” Finn translates, distilling chaos to clarity.

“Obviously.” Mona beams like teacher proud of student’s breakthrough. “Though I prefer the termimprovisational chemistry.”

Ryker drags hand down his face, the other remaining firmly at my back, silent promise that despite chaos, he hasn’t forgotten my approaching heat. I watch him counting to ten, controlled breathing marking time in our midnight symphony. “What equipment do you need?”

“Many things. Very specific.” Mona produces a list from seemingly nowhere, flourishing it like magician with dove. “Also more candy. For focus.”

The list Ryker takes spans several pages, written in multiple colors including what appears to be glitter pen. His expression darkens with each line, shoulders tensing like violin string overtightened.

“Half of this would trigger federal monitoring if ordered,” he states flatly. “And the other half is actually illegal without proper credentials.”

“Details,” Mona dismisses with airy wave. “Also, daddy’s probably monitoring medical supply chains already.”

The implications crash like cymbals—we can’t order what Mona needs without potentially exposing our location to Roman.

“We have to move,” Ryker concludes, voice hardening with certainty. “Secure new location, set up proper lab facilities.”

“No!” Mona’s response bursts from her, usual whimsy vanishing instantly. “Moving disrupts experimental continuity.”

“Your father is hunting us,” Ryker counters. “And you just lit up the night sky with chemical fireworks. Security is compromised.”

“I need those supplies,” Mona insists, suddenly serious as radiation warning. “The vaccine development can’t wait. Beta mortality rates are increasing exponentially.”

As they argue, my pre-heat symptoms intensify despite Mona’s injection. Fever crawls under my skin like hungry beast seeking exit, each nerve ending singing its own desperate song. Ryker senses the change, attention briefly diverting from argument to me, concern darkening his eyes as he draws me closer, his body heat both comfort and torture against my fevered skin.

“You should be resting,” he murmurs privately, voice pitched for my ears alone, alpha concern momentarily overriding practical crisis. “Your body’s fighting the suppressants.”

“I’m fine,” I lie smoothly, a white key pressed when black was needed. We both recognize the false note but let it stand—another silent understanding in our complex composition.

The smoke becomes overwhelming, each molecule scraping against hypersensitive receptors. Every voice grates like nails onchalkboard. Every scent assaults with intensity that makes my eyes water.

But beneath discomfort, an idea forms—composition taking shape, turning suffering into solution.

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