Page 9 of Reckless: Corruption

“Oh no, little red, where oh where have you gone?” His voice carries the same sing-song quality a child might use playing hide and seek, if that child was planning murder.

I force my breaths to slow, pressing my back against the cold concrete. For a moment, unbidden, I wonder if Theo’s pre-heat symptoms have progressed. He’d been fighting it for days, wanting to wait for me. The thought of missing something so important, of leaving them when they needed me most, burns almost as badly as Alexander’s knife. The urge to snark back nearly overwhelms me, but for once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.

I don’t know the layout, don’t have a weapon, don’t have a plan. All I have is me, myself, and the growing certainty that my brother intends to paint this garage with my blood.

For a brief, mad moment, I think of Ryker. He’s going to be so pissed about this—assuming I live long enough for him to be pissed at all. And Finn would be cataloging every detail of this place, building mental maps and calculating odds. Theo would... no, I can’t think about Theo right now. The thought of his warmth in this cold place might break me.

Don’t think about them. Not yet.

Alexander’s footsteps draw closer, each click of his boots against concrete a countdown to violence. Fight or flight spins in my head like a broken compass, neither option promisingsurvival. But if I’m going to have any chance of exploring this facility later, I need to prove I can handle whatever he dishes out.

I crouch lower, muscle memory from Ryker’s training taking over as I time my breathing to Alexander’s steps. As he passes my pillar, I slowly edge around it, keeping to his blind spot. Thank fuck he put the gun away—at least this will be an almost fair fight.

Yeah, right.Like anything about this family is fair.

Time slows as I launch my attack, mind calculating trajectories like I’m hacking a particularly tricky system. In my head, it’s perfect—use the pillar as a springboard, channel all that parkour training Jinx gave me, catch Alexander with a kick to the head. One clean shot. That’s all I need.

Reality, as usual, has other plans.

He catches my leg mid-air like he’s been waiting for exactly this move. My back hits the concrete with bone-crushing force, driving every molecule of air from my lungs. Stars explode behind my eyes as my skull bounces off the floor.

“That was a...” Alexander pauses, like he’s searching for the right word, “try.”

He drops my legs with casual disdain. I roll to my side, gagging as my body fights to remember how breathing works. Each desperate inhale feels like swallowing broken glass.

“Try again.” His boot connects with my ribs, the impact precise enough to hurt like hell without breaking anything. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Fuck this guy.

I scramble to my feet, rage overwhelming reason as I charge him. My fists might as well be hitting a brick wall for all the damage they do. He dodges my wild swings with almost bored efficiency, his laughter echoing off concrete walls until it sounds like a crowd of Alexanders mocking my efforts.

Finally, one punch connects—a solid hit to his jaw that sends satisfaction singing through my veins. The victory lasts approximately half a second before his fist finds my face with surgical precision. My head snaps back as copper floods my mouth, the world tilting sideways as I hit the ground again.

I cradle my throbbing jaw, blinking back tears of pain and frustration. I hate him. God, I hate him so much it burns in my chest like acid.

Alexander crouches before me, all predatory grace and cold amusement. “I’m not supposed to kill you.” The knife appears in his hand, blade catching fluorescent light. “But I know exactly how to walk that line.”

Real fear—the kind that turns your bones to water—floods my system.

I’d thought the gun was scary, thought the beating was bad, but the casual way he holds that blade tells me I haven’t seen anything yet. This isn’t just violence. This is art to him. And I’m about to become his canvas.

I scramble backward, concrete scraping my palms raw. But he advances with machine-like relentlessness, each step measured and inevitable. His smile grows as my back hits a pillar, trapping me between concrete and steel.

The blade moves like quicksilver, too fast to track. I throw my arms up, defensive training kicking in even as panic screams through my veins. Each block earns me a new cut—shallow slices that burn like fire across my skin. He’s playing with me, I realize. Drawing designs in my flesh like a child with a new box of crayons.

His laughter bounces off the walls, a soundtrack to my gasping breaths and the wet sound of blade parting skin. Then, without warning, the knife plunges into my stomach.

Everything stops.

He fucking stabbed me. He actually fucking stabbed me.

Alexander leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “All betas should be eradicated from earth.” His words drip with zealot’s conviction. “You’re lucky you’re smart, according to father. Otherwise this would be a death blow.”

He yanks the knife out with a twist, and fresh agony blazes through me. I slap my hand over the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers.

“You aren’t supposed to pull the knife out,” I gasp, because apparently my mouth still works even when my survival instinct doesn’t.

“I didn’t hit anything major.” He steps back, admiring his work like an artist critiquing a canvas. “You’ll learn where the vitals are.”

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