Page 73 of Reckless: Corruption

“Better?” she asks, looking entirely too pleased with herself as she rises gracefully, wiping mouth with gesture both vulgar and elegant.

“Much.” I reach for her, drawing her down for kiss that tastes of me and her and something that feels increasingly like home—harmony I didn’t know I sought until it found me. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Her grin turns mischievous, eyes dancing with trouble. “Though preferably when not surrounded by your omega underground army.”

Reality crashes back—what we’ve learned, urgent mission, time constraints. I clean up quickly, brief relief already fading as pre-heat continues its relentless progression, biology momentarily quieted but not silenced.

“We need to get back,” I say, tucking in shirt with steadier hands. “Mona needs to know what’s happening with virus.”

Cayenne nods, playfulness submerged beneath gravity of situation. “If Roman has fixed what she sabotaged...”

“Then we’re running out of time,” I finish grimly.

The supplies wait by the car when we reach garage, Elena standing beside trunk with final data drive. Her expression carries gravity of doctor delivering terminal diagnosis as she presses it into Cayenne’s hand, gesture weighted beyond small device.

“Everything we have on mutations,” she says, authority radiating from her like heat signature. “And a message for Mona Sterling.” Her eyes hold mine, intensity commanding absolute attention. “Tell her Elena Davis says her father called in Dr. Whitmore to fix hererrors.”

The name means nothing to me, but Cayenne inhales sharply, tension radiating from her like electromagnetic pulse. “Whitmore? You’re sure?”

Elena nods once, grim certainty in gesture. “Positive.”

The drive back is tense, my pre-heat returning with vengeance despite Cayenne’s earlier assistance. My body screams for more—more touch, more release, more completion than single orgasm could provide. Mona’s suppressant fights losing battle against biology, each mile bringing me closer to inevitable surrender.

“Who’s Whitmore?” I ask as we take back roads toward home, question cutting through tension.

Cayenne’s hands clench in lap, knuckles white. “The world’s leading expert on designation genetics. And apparently, my father’s new partner in genocide.”

The implications crash like lead weight, sudden modulation to minor that transforms entire piece. If Roman has brought additional expertise to correct Mona’s sabotage, the virus threat has escalated exponentially.

“We’ll stop them,” I promise, reaching over to cover her hand with mine, contact grounding me as much as her. “Mona will perfect the vaccine, and we’ll distribute it through my network.”

Her smile is tight but determined, warrior preparing for battle she knows will leave scars. “Your omega underground meets my sister’s chaotic genius. Perfect combination.”

As we pull into the mansion’s drive, the pack emerges in familiar formation—Ryker scanning first, shoulders squared against potential threats, alpha instincts reading every microexpression on my face. His nostrils flare, cataloging my condition with single breath. His eyes meet mine, burning intensity conveying both relief at my return and concern at my deteriorating state.

Jinx follows, immediately locking onto Cayenne with that same confused fascination, head tilting as he processes her altered scent. Finn leans against the doorframe, still recoveringbut analytical mind visibly calculating as he studies us both, assessing our conditions with beta precision.

And behind them all, Mona bounces on her toes, practically vibrating with scientific excitement, her body a living visualization of controlled chaos.

“Well?” she demands before we’re even out of the car, words tumbling out in rush. “Did you get the supplies? Was my list sufficient? Did you encounter any noteworthy obstacles?”

I can’t help but laugh despite everything. “Yes, we got your supplies. And yes, Cayenne’s scent is definitely confusing alphas.”

Jinx demonstrates by approaching Cayenne with perplexed expression, nose working overtime like bloodhound presented with contradictory trails. “It’s getting stronger. 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.”

“Please stop with the analogies,” Cayenne groans, though amusement threads through her exasperation.

Mona darts between boxes, fingers dancing over equipment with reverent precision. “Excellent procurement!” She freezes mid-movement, head tilting as she inhales deeply. Her eyes widen with scientific interest rather than social awareness. “Fascinating pheromone exchange. Omega-beta intimate contact detected.” She looks between us, nodding to herself. “Sexual activity evident in combined scent markers.”

Her observation drops like drumbeat into stunned silence.

“What?” Ryker’s voice carries dangerous edges, alpha possessiveness harmonizing with confusion. His eyes find mine, complex emotion darkening his gaze. Not anger exactly, but something deeper—concern mixed with particular brand of jealousy that has nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with protective instinct.

“Technically not sex,” Cayenne clarifies, unfazed by Mona’s clinical assessment. “Just a friendly omega-assistance moment.”

Mona taps her chin thoughtfully. “Oral stimulation for pre-heat symptom management. Biologically efficient approach.” She says this with same tone she might discuss chemical compounds, pure scientific observation without judgment.

“Jesus Christ,” Finn mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

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