Page 29 of Reckless: Chaos

The IV drips steadily beside me, each drop hitting with metronomic precision that my addled brain tries to convert into binary. The ceiling tiles swim above me, merging and separating like improperly rendered graphics. Medical monitors cast blue-green shadows across the walls, their LEDs blinking in patterns that remind me of server banks during low traffic hours.

“Why am I itchy?” The question crawls out of my sandpaper throat as phantom sensations skitter across my skin like rogue scripts, multiplying with each heartbeat. My good hand plucks at the hospital gown they’ve wrapped me in, the fabric rough against suddenly hypersensitive skin.

“Those are the meds.” Theo’s voice carries the gentle precision of a master coder, each word carefully placed. His hands catch mine, stilling their restless movement. “I’ll dial it down. How do you feel?”

My eyelids require admin access I apparently no longer have. They’re operating on someone else’s permissions now, which is fine. I’ve worked with borrowed resources before. Thefluorescent lights overhead swim in and out of focus like a bad video feed.

“Weird.” The word slips out as four faces slowly render into focus, their concern as clearly displayed as a critical error message. The room solidifies around me—white walls, medical equipment, and four very large, very worried men trying to pretend they haven’t been hovering like anxious antivirus programs.

I lock onto Theo first, his artist’s hands hovering over my bandages like someone about to debug particularly delicate code. The gauze stretches across my shoulder, stark white against skin that looks too pale even for me.

My lips feel like I’ve been licking circuit boards. Theo responds by pressing a straw to my mouth with the careful attention he usually reserves for his piano keys. “Drink.”

“Sir yes sir.” The water hits my system like a fresh install, clearing out some of the garbage data cluttering my processes. Cool relief slides down my throat, washing away the copper tang of old fear. “Oh that’s good.”

“So...” I lick my lips, chasing the last drops of water. “Everyone want to tell me why I feel like I lost a fight with a server rack?”

The pack exchanges loaded glances that take way too much processing power to decode. Finally, Finn steps forward, switching seamlessly into what I’ve mentally dubbed hismission reportvoice.

“The bullet lodged in your shoulder blade,” he says, each word precise. “It required surgical removal.”

“The reason we are not at a hospital,” Jinx cuts in, his voice raw. “Because hospitals have too many people and too many scents and too many—” He cuts himself off, jaw working.

“Because Jinx had an episode when they tried to separate us from you in the ER,” Ryker finishes, his tone carefully neutral.“Three security guards and an orderly later, we decided a private facility would be more... prudent.”

“He means I lost my shit,” Jinx says flatly. His hands twist in his hoodie. “When they said pack couldn’t come back while they operated. When they tried to make us leave you alone.”

“So we brought you here,” Theo adds softly. “Quinn’s private medical room. Secure. Pack-friendly. No separation required.”

“Ah.” I try to nod and immediately regret it as pain spikes through my shoulder. “That tracks. How bad was the damage?”

“The bullet missed anything vital,” Finn says, but there’s a tremor under his clinical tone. “Though not for lack of trying. Two inches lower and—” He stops abruptly as Theo makes a small, hurt sound.

“But it didn’t,” Ryker cuts in firmly. His hand lands on Theo’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “She’s here. She’s safe. And she’s never doing anything that stupid again.”

“Focus on drinking,” Theo says, a strained laugh catching in his throat. His hands flutter over the bandages at my shoulder, the touch so light I barely register it through the haze of whatever they’re giving me. Even through the drugs, I can smell the lingering traces of gunpowder and blood on him. He hasn’t taken time to shower, too busy playing nurse.

Satisfied, I sink back into the mountain of pillows supporting me and let my vision adjust. Not my basement prison, but another bedroom. White walls stretch up around me, institutional and bare.

The space feels temporary, defensive—a safe house rather than a hospital. Monitoring equipment hums quietly in the corner, a steady stream of data about my vital signs scrolling across screens that probably cost more than my first car.

And more freaking white walls.

“We can get paint swatches.” Ryker’s gruff voice carries from the foot of my bed, where he’s been standing sentry for thepast hour. The alpha’s arms stay crossed, shoulders rigid with tension, but something softens infinitesimally in his expression. His scent shifts, cedar and steel warming like a system coming back online.

“Didn’t mean to say—” The words feel clumsy on my tongue.

“That out loud?” His lips twitch, the first crack in his militant facade since they dug the bullet out. “You’re grounded.”

I blink up at him, each movement feeling like it requires a full system reboot. The drugs make me brave—or stupid. Probably stupid. “Okay, Daddy.”

His eyes darken to thunderclouds, and something hot and electric crackles through the drug-induced fog.

A chorus of choked laughs breaks the tension.

“The fuck did you give me?” The question comes out more wondering than accusatory.

“The good stuff.” Theo perches beside me, his fingers still ghosting over the bandages like he can’t quite stop touching them. Stop reassuring himself I’m whole. His omega scent carries notes of vanilla and night jasmine, layered with the metallic tang of old fear. Every few minutes, his hands tremble slightly before he steadies them. “Are you okay?”

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