Page 23 of Reckless: Chaos

“I always wondered,” she says, playing along though tension thrums through her body, “what else you hide behind those stage lights.”

Above us, the shadow pauses. Adjusts. Like it’s searching for the perfect angle, the perfect shot. The movement carries familiar grace—trained, precise, lethal. I’ve seen that kind of grace before, in mirror-lined practice rooms and combat training.

This isn’t just any assassin. This is someone who knows how to make death beautiful.

“We need to move.” I trace patterns on her skin, grounding us both. “But first—do you trust me?”

“That’s a loaded question for someone who just showed me their secret Batman tunnel.”

A laugh escapes before I can catch it, real despite the danger. This is why she fits with us—this ability to find light in darkness. To make chaos dance.

“My next performance,” I say, loud enough to carry, to sell the story I’m building, “requires a more... intimate venue.”

Understanding floods her features. Smart girl. Already reading the script I’m writing.

I trigger the next phase of Byzantine through my phone—lights shifting, music changing key. To most, it looks like typical club ambiance. To my people, it’s evacuation choreography. They’ll clear the civilians, secure the omega, contact Quinn’s team.

Leaving me free to do what I do best: create a distraction. Put on a show. Keep all eyes on me while moving my most precious audience member to safety.

“Ready for your command performance?” I ask Cayenne, letting my omega allure spiral out. Letting myself become the brightest thing in the room. The thing anyone hunting her won’t be able to help but watch.

Her smile carries edges sharp enough to cut. “Show me what you’ve got, maestro.”

The secure room suddenly feels like a cage—one I built myself, with only one way in and out. Amateur mistake for someone who specializes in escapes.

“We need to move.” I help the injured omega to her feet, mind already mapping routes. “There’s a secondary exit throughthe storage room. Emergency protocols should have cleared the main club by now.”

“Should have?” Cayenne’s eyebrow raises with perfect sass despite the tension.

“My staff is very well trained in evacuation choreography.” I guide them toward the hidden panel behind a filing cabinet. “Unlike some people, they actually follow instructions.”

“Says the omega who snuck out of pack lockdown.”

“Touché, piccola.”

The panel slides open to reveal a narrow corridor, emergency lights casting everything in red shadows. It’s meant as a last resort—a final escape route for omegas in danger. Ironic that I’m using it to protect a beta.

“Wait.” Our messenger’s voice shakes. “They’ll know I helped you. They’ll?—”

“They won’t touch you.” The promise comes out with more steel than silk. “Quinn’s team is already en route. They’ll extract you to Omega Guardians.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth there. “You’re under my protection now. Both of you.”

A crash from above makes us all freeze. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by the distinct click of a door being systematically tested.

They’re searching. Room by room. Getting closer.

“Time to go.” I usher them into the corridor, every performance instinct screaming that we’re being herded. That this is all too choreographed, too precise.

Through the security feed on my phone, I catch glimpses of movement—someone sweeping the club with military precision. The grace in their steps, the methodical search pattern... this isn’t some common thug. This is someone trained. Professional. Someone who treats killing like an art form.

“Cayenne.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Remember when you said you trusted me?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to run faster.”

The corridor feels endless, emergency lights painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. Each of our footsteps echoes despite our attempts at stealth, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing right into someone’s carefully crafted performance.

“Left here,” I guide them, trying to recall every escape route I’ve planned over the years. The ones I never thought I’d actually need. “There’s a service exit that leads to?—”

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