Page 26 of Reckless: Chaos

“Multiple targets converging,” Cayenne whispers behind me, still working my phone. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before?—”

“Before this gets considerably less civilized,” the hunter finishes for her. “Though I’d say one minute, given your security team’s response patterns.”

They know our protocols. Which means...

“The omega,” I breathe, understanding hitting like a spotlight. “You didn’t just send her as a message. You used her to map our response times. Our evacuation procedures.”

“Very good.” Those green eyes crinkle with what might be genuine appreciation. “I do so enjoy working with professionals.”

“Funny.” Cayenne’s voice carries steel beneath the sarcasm. “I was just thinking what an amateur move it is to monologue while backup gets into position.”

The hunter’s laugh sounds surprisingly genuine. “Oh, I like her. I can see why—” They cut off abruptly, like they’ve said too much.

But I caught it. That hint of personal interest. Of recognition.

Before I can process what it means, Cayenne’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “Company incoming. Both directions.”

“Well then,” the hunter shifts their weight, every movement screaming trained killer, “shall we dance?”

My lips peel back from my teeth, the expression containing too much threat to be called a smile. I roll my shoulders, dropping into a performance stance that’s carried me through a hundred shows and twice as many escapes. “Sorry, darling. But I never perform the same show twice.”

My hand finds the hidden panel behind me, the one I installed after too many close calls with handsy alphas.

“Hold your breath,” I tell Cayenne.

Then I trigger the club’s emergency ventilation system, and everything goes to hell.

Smoke floods the corridor like my special effects team just won the lottery. But this isn’t stage fog—it’s industrial-gradecoverage designed to disorient alphas’ enhanced senses. The kind of defense system you install when you run an underground omega sanctuary.

The hunter’s reaction is... interesting. No stumbling. No disorientation. Just a slight tilt of their head, like they’re adjusting to a minor inconvenience.

“Clever,” they say, voice carrying clearly through the chaos. “But ultimately futile.”

“Most of my best performances are.” I grab Cayenne’s hand, already moving. “Exit stage left, piccola.”

We run. Not toward the tunnel—they’ll expect that. Instead, I pull her toward my private dressing room. The one with three different escape routes and enough costumes to make quick changes an art form.

“Your security team is good,” the hunter calls after us, their footsteps maintaining that eerily precise rhythm even in pursuit. “Quinn trained them well. But they’re about to be very, very busy.”

As if on cue, the club’s main alarm starts blaring. Not the evacuation sequence—the full breach protocol. Multiple points of entry.

They planned this. All of it.

“Tell me you have another secret tunnel,” Cayenne says as we burst into my dressing room.

“Better.” I hit the lights, revealing my private domain in all its chaotic glory. Racks of costumes, walls of mirrors, and one very special vanity. “I have a trap door.”

“Of course you do.”

“Performer’s prerogative.” I move to the vanity, fingers finding the hidden catch. “Never give your audience a predictable exit.”

The hunter’s footsteps grow closer, still maintaining that perfect rhythm. Like they’re counting down to something.

“I count four teams converging,” Cayenne reports, eyes on my phone’s security feed. “They’re herding everyone up through the main club.”

“Good.” At her sharp look, I clarify: “Means they’re following standard protocol. Looking for us where they expect us to be.”

“While we’re taking the theatrical route?”

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