Page 32 of Reckless: Chaos

“Fascinating.” Finn gently guides my hand to the correct piece. “Though perhaps we should focus on less lethal applications of mathematics.”

The pawn feels impossibly heavy in my fingers. “Chess is just geometry with murder.”

“I see the medication is still quite effective.” But he’s fighting a smile as he helps me place the piece.

“You know what I figured out?” I let my head fall back, watching him through heavy lids.

“Do tell.”

“You’re the scariest one.”

His eyebrows lift above his glasses. “Am I now?”

“Mmhmm.” The room is getting fuzzy around the edges, but this feels important to explain. “Ryker’s all...” I wave my good hand vaguely, “obvious alpha energy. And Jinx is chaos incarnate. Theo’s got that whole secretly deadly thing going. But you...”

“Yes?” His voice carries genuine curiosity.

“You see everything. Calculate everything.” My drug-loosened tongue trips over the revelation. “Run probability matrices in that beautiful brain... probably knew I’d take that bullet before I did. Saw all the variables, didn’t you? The trajectory, the impact point, the statistical likelihood of me choosing Theo over self-preservation...”

My eyes are really heavy now, but this feels important to articulate. Like debugging critical code before a system crash. “Bet you even knew exactly how everyone would react. How long it’d take Jinx to start stress cooking—what is he makinganyway? Smells like... comfort food algorithms. And Theo... bet you calculated exactly how many cupcakes he’s gonna stress-bake. Down to the last sprinkle...”

The steady click of chess pieces stills. Through half-closed eyes, I see something flash across Finn’s face—surprise, maybe? No, that’s not right. Wonder. Like I’ve shown him an elegant solution to a problem he thought only he could see.

“Sleep, Cayenne.” His voice comes from far away, filtered through layers of medication and exhaustion. The chess pieces blur into abstract patterns of black and white, like binary code dancing across my vision. “The game will wait.”

“Knew you’d say that too,” I mumble as darkness creeps in like a slow-spreading virus. “You calculate everything... prob’ly knew about the bullet before I did...”

The last thing I feel is something soft being tucked around my shoulders—the weighted blanket from Finn’s reading nook, I realize dimly. It carries his scent, earl grey and leather-bound books, wrapped around me like the world’s coziest firewall. The gentle press of lips against my forehead feels like the most elegant piece of code I’ve ever encountered.

“Rest, my brilliant, reckless girl,” Finn whispers, his accent thickening with emotion he usually keeps carefully encrypted. “Let us take care of you for once.”

And I do, because for the first time since I can remember, my security protocols aren’t screaming at the vulnerability. I have a shoulder to heal, four delicious men to ride into the sunset, and maybe—just maybe—a pack worth taking bullets for.

Chapter 8

Cayenne

The scentof rosemary and thyme drags me from a dream about binary code and chess pieces. My nose twitches first, then my stomach contracts with unexpected hunger, finally convincing my eyelids to consider the possibility of movement. For a moment, I float in that hazy space between sleeping and waking, where everything feels soft and possible.

Until I try to move.

“Son of a—” The curse dies in my throat as pain lances through my shoulder, sharp enough to cut through the lingering effects of whatever they gave me earlier.

“Easy.” Jinx materializes from the shadows like he’s been waiting there all along. Maybe he has. “The morphine’s wearing off.” He glances at the medical tablet beside my bed, where my vital signs scroll in neat rows. “Finn says we can’t give you more for another two hours. Something about respiratory depression and monitoring liver function.” His fingers twist in his hoodie. “The doctor Quinn sent over said we need to be careful with the dosing since you’re...” He swallows hard. “Since you lost so much blood.”

The monitors chirp softly, confirming what my body’s already telling me—the good drugs are definitely fading. Everyheartbeat sends fresh pain signals through my shoulder like failed login attempts, each one harder to ignore than the last.

He moves closer, and I catch sight of what he’s carrying—a tray laden with what appears to be the world’s most lethal comfort food. Little savory pies steam gently, their tops golden-brown peaks of mashed potatoes. Beside them, a collection of Theo’s cupcakes sit like tiny works of art, frosted in perfect swirls of lavender.

“You actually cooked.” My voice comes out rough with sleep and something else. Something that feels dangerously close to being cared for.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” But there’s no bite in his words as he sets the tray down. His hands hover uncertainly before he helps me sit up, touch careful in a way that makes my chest ache. “Besides, you need real food if you’re gonna heal.”

The gentleness in his movements, so at odds with his usual feral energy, threatens to undo me completely.

“Real food like tiny meat pies masquerading as cupcakes?” I try for teasing, but my voice wavers as his fingers brush my neck, adjusting pillows behind me.

“Shepherd’s cupcakes,” he corrects with that hint of manic pride I’m learning to recognize. “High protein. Good for healing. And...” His lips quirk. “No ghost peppers.”

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