Page 75 of Reckless: Corruption

“Improving. Still weaker than he’ll admit, but the virus is retreating.” Ryker’s eyes return to mine, assessment shifting back to me. “Which is why you’re next in line for Mona’s questionable pharmaceuticals. Are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”

I thrust my arm out with dramatic flair. “Just do it already. I’ve survived one Sterling—I can survive another.”

His hands—those capable, dangerous hands that can disassemble a rifle in under ten seconds—hover over my skin. For a brief moment, something flickers across his face as he positions the needle. Hesitation? Concern? Whatever it is vanishes as quickly as a deleted cache.

“This might sting,” he warns, gentler than I expect.

“I’ve been stabbed by my brother. I think I can handle—” I wince as the needle slides home. “Shit.”

The pinch gives way to the strange cold-hot sensation of Mona’s concoction entering my bloodstream. It feels like liquid electricity, all snap and sizzle beneath my skin, like someone injected me with overclocked CPU coolant.

“There.” He disposes of the syringe in a portable sharps container. “Now get dressed. Training room in fifteen.”

I blink, sleep-fog instantly clearing. “Training? As in combat training? As in you’re finally letting me do something besides stare at walls and analyze my pee color?”

“Ten minutes,” he amends, already heading for the door. “Gray sweats and that black tank top. Sports bra. Hair up. No jewelry.” He pauses in the doorway, eyes tracking over me in a quick tactical assessment that somehow still manages to feel like a caress. “And Cayenne? Don’t be late.”

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me staring at the empty space where six-foot-two of alpha command just stood. Training. Finally. After nearly two weeks of virus recovery and being treated like a corrupted hard drive, I’m cleared for action.

I’m out of bed and dressed in record time, hair yanked into a messy ponytail, bare feet padding through silent hallways toward the training room. On my way, I pass the kitchen where Finn sits hunched over data charts, his usual perfect posture compromised by lingering fatigue. He looks up as I pass, offering a tired smile.

“Training day?” he asks, noting my attire.

“Finally. Though why Ryker picked 5 AM to reinstate physical activity is beyond me. Even GitHub doesn’t push updates this early.”

“Because he was up with Theo until 4.” Finn adjusts his glasses, sympathy in his gaze. “Theo’s heat is fighting Mona’s suppressant. Ryker’s been... stretched thin, managing everything.”

The reminder hits my system like unexpected code output. While I’ve been focused on my recovery, Ryker’s been balancing pack needs, Theo’s condition, and Sterling threats.

“I’ll go easy on him then,” I quip, though we both know that’s not how this works.

Finn’s smile turns knowing. “No, you won’t. And that’s exactly what he needs right now—normalcy. Challenge.” His expression grows more serious. “He needs you to push back, Cay. It’s how he measures stability.”

The insight processes in background as I continue toward the training room, adding new context to what awaits. The door stands open, Ryker already inside moving through a series of precise warmup exercises. I pause in the doorway, momentarily mesmerized by the controlled power in each motion. There’s something hypnotic about the way he transitions between stances—like watching predatory code execute in slow motion, lethal grace contained in human form.

Holy hell, it’s hot.

“Are you going to stare all morning, or are you going to join me?” He doesn’t turn, doesn’t break rhythm, just continues his pattern as though my presence changes nothing in his system architecture.

“Just admiring the view,” I quip, stepping onto the training mats. “Not often I get the full alpha display before breakfast.”

The look he shoots me carries equal parts exasperation and something darker, more dangerous. “Warm up. Start with neck stretches, then work down.”

I follow his lead, matching movements as we work through a systematic warm-up. My body still carries traces of Sterling’s virus—occasional weakness rippling through my limbs when I push too hard, moments of unexplained dizziness when I move too quickly—but the debilitating symptoms have mostly receded. Whatever pharmaceutical madness Mona’s putting in those mystery shots is working, stabilizing my system enough for normal function, even if I’m half-convinced she’s using me as a beta test for her experimental treatments.

“You’re favoring your left side,” he observes, breaking the silence between us.

“Old habit. My right was my dominant for coding.”

“It’s a tell. In a real fight, it gives your opponent advance notice of which way you’ll move.” His hand lands on my shoulder, adjusting my stance with clinical precision. “Balance should be even.”

“Like when I broke your hold in our last session?” I challenge, reference to our pre-Sterling training impossible to resist. “You know, before you decided I was too fragile for basic self-defense.”

His jaw tightens, the first crack in his firewall. “That was different.”

“How, exactly?” I roll my shoulders, deliberately breaking his adjustments. “I was sick then too.”

“You weren’t recovering from torture.”

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