Page 96 of Reckless: Corruption

Jinx materializes at my other side. “I’m not leaving your side,” he announces, the simple declaration carrying all his feral intensity. “Not even to piss.”

“Charming,” I deadpan, but the tightness in my throat betrays the impact of their unified support.

Finn’s gaze holds mine across the room, a wordless exchange carrying everything we don’t need to say. Understanding. Gratitude. A promise.

“I don’t like it,” Ryker finally says, though his tone suggests he recognizes the strategic necessity. “But I understand why it has to be you.”

“We’ll monitor you constantly,” Theo adds, already shifting into caretaker mode. “At first sign of serious adverse reaction, we stop.”

“And I’ll be ready to party with whoever made you sick,” Jinx contributes, cracking his knuckles with theatrical menace that doesn’t quite hide his concern.

“Very cohesive pack response,” Mona observes, head tilted in scientific interest. “Much protective instinct despite logical acceptance of necessity. Fascinating behavioral integration.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, I can’t help but snort at her clinical assessment of what’s essentially our dysfunctional little group doing the only thing we know how to do—fight back against impossible odds.

“When do we start?” I ask, pushing down the flutter of fear trying to climb up my throat.

“Immediately,” Mona declares, already moving toward the door with renewed purpose. “Vaccine preparation requires seventeen minutes. Administration protocols already established. Much scientific excitement!”

As the pack follows her toward her makeshift lab, I feel Finn fall into step beside me, his movements still careful but steadier than they’ve been in days.

“You sure about this?” he asks quietly, voice pitched for my ears alone.

“Hell no,” I admit, honesty easier between us now. “But necessary things rarely come with certainty, right, Professor?”

His hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “I’d volunteer if I could. If my system wasn’t already compromised.”

“I know.” And I do—Finn would shoulder any risk to protect others, especially those he considers family. It’s one of the many reasons he’s worth saving, worth fighting for. “But this is my fight too. My father, my virus, my responsibility.”

“Our responsibility,” he corrects, gentle but firm. “Whatever happens with the vaccine, you’re not facing it alone. Not anymore.”

The sentiment should make me uncomfortable. Would have, once. Now it sits somewhere between terrifying and necessary, like most things in my life these days.

“Besides,” Finn adds, a glint of his usual dry humor returning, “someone has to be there to document your scientific contribution. For posterity.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” I bump his shoulder gently with mine. “Pretty sure guinea pig is more accurate.”

“I prefer pioneering research subject,” he counters with mock seriousness. “It looks better on academic citations.”

Our banter carries us to Mona’s lab, where clinical efficiency has replaced the usual chaos. Equipment gleams under bright lights, data scrolls across multiple monitors, and in the center of it all, my sister moves with the focused precision of a surgeon preparing for a complex operation.

The vaccine itself looks deceptively ordinary—a clear liquid in a standard medical syringe. Nothing about its appearance suggests the thousands of hours of research behind it, the potential it holds to save countless lives, or the risk I’m about to take by allowing it into my system.

“Ready?” Mona asks, syringe poised above my arm. For once, her expression holds no artificial mania, no calculated chaos—just focused scientific purpose and something that might, from anyone else, look like concern.

I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the memory of Alexander’s knife, of Sterling’s experimental virus, of pain and fire in my veins. This is different. This is choice, not capture. Possibility, not punishment.

Still terrifying, though.

“As I’ll ever be,” I answer, voice steadier than I feel.

The needle slides home with practiced ease, the vaccine entering my system with a brief sting that belies its potential impact. Unlike Sterling’s virus, there’s no immediate burning sensation—just a strange coolness spreading from the injection site, like liquid winter flowing through my veins. I shiver involuntarily, the temperature shift subtle but distinctive.

As Mona withdraws the syringe, applying a small bandage with unexpected gentleness, I catch her murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like “Thank you.”

“Now what?” I ask, flexing my arm experimentally. It feels normal, though I know that could change rapidly if adverse reactions begin.

“Now we wait,” Mona declares, already moving to her monitoring equipment. “Immune response typically initiates within two to four hours. Full antibody production requires approximately seventy-two hours. Much observation required. Very exciting data collection opportunity.”

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