Page 88 of Reckless: Corruption

“Of course I was,” I admit, too drained for pretense. “You and Ryker playing hero while I stared at a download bar? Not my idea of a good time.”

His smile softens into something genuine rather than feral. “But we came back. Always will.”

“You better,” I mutter, focusing on the collar of his tactical gear rather than meeting his eyes. “Or I’ll have to hunt you down myself.”

“Now that,” he murmurs, tilting my chin up, “would be fun to see.”

Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine in a kiss that carries equal parts reassurance and promise—warm, solid, real. Not the chaotic hunger of our first encounter, but something deeper. When we break apart, his eyes hold mine, uncharacteristically serious.

“We’re pack, Glitch. The rules changed.”

“I know,” I whisper, the admission easier than expected.

His smile returns, the wildness I’ve come to expect from him sliding back into place. “Good. Now let’s get inside before Theo decides we both need medical attention.”

Chapter 18

Finn

My fingers trembleas they hover over the keyboard—a fine tremor, imperceptible to anyone not trained to notice microscopic deviations. I’ve spent my life calculating angles, measuring distances to the millimeter, trusting my hands to translate mathematical precision into reality.

Now they betray me, Sterling’s virus stealing my control.

“Maybe we should wait,” Cayenne suggests from her seat beside my bed. She’s set up a workstation here—a mirror of mine with dual monitors, specialized routing gear, and three backup drives. The room smells of antiseptic and illness, punctuated by the increasingly confusing notes of her changing scent.

“We don’t have time to wait,” I counter, forcing my fingers steady through sheer will. The screen before me shows Sterling’s primary firewall—a digital fortress that might as well be Mordor for all our chance of casual entry. “Every day we delay, more betas die.”

She doesn’t argue—just nods and returns to her system. We’ve been at this for hours, probing Sterling’s central database for vulnerabilities. The server farm we hit three days ago was just an outpost. This is the heart, the brain, the core of his operations. And it’s locked up tight.

A cough rips through me—wet and brutal—bending me double over the keyboard. The fever that’s simmered for days has caught fire, turning my skin to burning paper and my lungs to wet sandpaper. When I straighten, Cayenne is watching me with that precise blend of concern and calculation that makes her unmistakably her.

“Your respiratory symptoms are progressing faster than mine did,” she observes, her analytical mind already cataloging differences. “Mona thinks it might be a gender-based response.”

“Lucky me,” I manage between breaths. “Always did want to be special.”

Her smile is brief but genuine. “You’re going to have to let me take point on this. I can handle the network infiltration.”

Pride wants to argue, but logic prevails. I calculate our probability of success with my deteriorating condition versus her operating at full capacity. The numbers don’t lie. “Sterling’s security system will trace any direct attack. We need a ghost—someone who can slip through without leaving fingerprints.”

“Good thing you’ve got a world-class hacker in your bedroom.” She winks, the gesture deliberately light despite the tension humming between us. “Scoot over. Let me show you how the professionals do it.”

I shift, making room for her to access my primary system while maintaining her own. The movement brings her closer, her scent washing over me in waves that make my head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the virus. There’s something different about her—something that wasn’t there before Sterling’s infection. Notes of sweetness beneath her usual citrus and ozone, almost like…

As a beta, my sensory interpretation lacks the instinctual certainty of an alpha, but my analytical mind compensates, categorizing subtle chemical changes that most betas would miss entirely. Years of working alongside alphas and omegashave trained me to detect pheromone patterns that typically fall outside beta perception range.

“You okay?” She glances up from the keyboard, catching me mid-analysis. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re solving equations in your head.” Her fingers fly across the keys, executing commands faster than most people can read them. “Usually involves a lot of staring and slightly parted lips.”

“I don’t do that.” I catalog the claim, filing it away for later verification.

“You absolutely do. It’s adorable, in a nerdy savant kind of way.” She initiates a sequence that bypasses the first layer of Sterling’s security without triggering any alerts. “Now focus, Professor. We’ve got a dragon to slay.”

I try, I really do, but the virus makes concentration difficult. My mind keeps slipping sideways, catching on irrelevant details—the way Cayenne’s hair falls over her shoulder as she works, the precise rhythm of her breathing, the subtle changes in her scent that keep triggering some primitive part of my brain.

Through the open doorway, I catch glimpses of the pack’s activity. Ryker paces the hallway, simultaneously on a call coordinating supply routes with Quinn and reviewing what appears to be preliminary tactical schematics. His efficiency even in crisis is something to be admired—the alpha mind at its strategic best, solving multiple problems in parallel tracks.

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