Page 91 of Reckless: Corruption

A coughing fit cuts off my reply, doubling me over. Each breath burns like glass. When it subsides, Cayenne is kneeling beside me, concern etched into every line of her face.

“That’s getting worse. We should get Mona.”

“Not yet. First, we need to analyze what we found. Aurora Facility could be the key.”

She helps me shift, supporting my weight as weakness sets in.

“The virus is progressing 1.7 times faster in my system,” I admit. “Possibly due to chromosomal differences. XY configuration may offer less resistance.”

“Or because you’re stubborn and refuse to rest,” she counters, without heat.

“Says the woman who tried to take on Sterling solo.”

Her smile turns rueful. “Touché.”

As we begin the preliminary analysis of the Aurora Facility data, I find myself distracted by her proximity. The scent changes that have been subtle for days seem stronger now—possibly amplified by my fever or the adrenaline of our digital escape. There’s definitely something omega-like emerging beneath her usual beta notes—not a full shift, but something... adjacent.

“You’re staring again,” she notes, not looking up. “Is it the scent thing? Jinx said it was getting stronger.”

“It’s... noticeable,” I admit, already categorizing the biochemical shifts. “Not quite omega, but definitely not purely beta anymore. Fascinating from a biochemical perspective.”

“Great, so I’m a walking science experiment.” She rolls her eyes, but concern flickers beneath the sarcasm. “Mona saysit’s temporary. A side effect of the virus interacting with beta pheromone production.”

“It’s driving Jinx slightly insane,” I add, recalling our feral alpha’s confused reaction at breakfast. “He described it as beta playing omega dress-up.”

“His descriptive capabilities continue to astound,” she deadpans, but a smile tugs at her lips. “At least I don’t have the constant urge to build nests or purr at everything.”

“The purring is actually an autonomic response to?—”

“I know what purring is, Professor.” She cuts me off with fond exasperation. “I’ve spent enough time with Theo to understand omega physiology. I’m just glad the virus didn’t give me that particular quirk.”

The mention of Theo sobers us both. Our omega has been working nonstop—activating his underground network, coordinating with other escaped omegas, creating safe channels for vaccine distribution. Meanwhile, Ryker juggles tactical logistics and pack security. The strain shows in both of them.

“He’s worried about you,” Cayenne says softly. “We all are.”

“I’m fine.” The lie falls flat, undermined by the tremor in my hands and the heat flushing my cheeks.

“No, you’re not.” Her hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with gentle pressure. “But you will be. Mona’s making progress. The data we just retrieved might be the missing piece.”

Her optimism doesn’t mask the fear beneath it. We both know I’m fighting the same virus that’s killed thousands. My odds aren’t guaranteed, no matter how hopeful Mona is.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, squeezing her hand with what strength I have. “Too much work to do. Aurora Facility to infiltrate. Chess games to win.”

“Damn right.” Her voice is fierce, warming something cold inside me. “I’ve got a rematch scheduled, and I’m not letting you weasel out of it by dying.”

Despite everything—the fever, the exhaustion, the looming threat—I laugh. It’s a rough sound, interrupted by coughing, but genuine.

“What?” she asks, mock offended.

“Only you would frame my survival as a chess obligation.”

Her expression softens, vulnerability peeking through her usual armor. “Whatever works. I’m not above emotional manipulation if it keeps you fighting.”

It’s such a Cayenne thing to say that it steals my breath more effectively than the virus ever could.

“Come here,” I say, shifting to make room beside me. When she hesitates, I add, “The virus isn’t contagious between betas who’ve already been exposed. Mona confirmed it.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Still, she slides in beside me. Her body is a line of warmth against my fever-chilled frame. We fit together naturally, like pieces engineered to interlock—her head tucked into the hollow of my shoulder, my arm around her waist.

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