Page 34 of Reckless: Chaos

He barks out a laugh that sounds like it hurts. “Yeah, well. Rather lose it out here than in there.” He jerks his head toward the bathroom. “Think you can stand?”

I consider this. “Probably. But I wouldn’t bet money on it.”

“Good thing you’re not gambling then.” Without warning, he scoops me up, movements so careful they make my chest ache. “I’ve got you.”

The position puts my face right against his throat, where his scent is strongest. Cherry tobacco and gunpowder, threaded through with something darker. Something raw.

“You really punched an orderly?”

“Two orderlies and kicked a vending machine.” His voice rumbles against my cheek. “Finn talked them out of pressing charges by offering to pay for it.”

“My hero.”

“Pretty sure heroes don’t assault medical staff.” He nudges the bathroom door open with his hip, movements controlled despite the tension thrumming through him. “Or destroy hospital property.”

“You paid for the vending machine.”

“Wasn’t about the money.” He sets me down on the closed toilet lid with excruciating care. “They wouldn’t let me see you.”

The bathroom light flickers on automatically, and I catch his reflection in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes look like bruises, his hair a mess from running agitated hands through it. Combined with his shredded hoodie, he looks exactly like what he is—a man barely hanging onto his control.

Which, of course, makes me want to push him.

“Help me with my shirt?” I try for innocent, but his eyes narrow, nostrils flaring as he catches the spike in my scent. The morphine is definitely wearing off—every movement sends warning signals through my nervous system like a DDOS attack. But the pain only heightens my awareness of him—the barely contained power in his movements, the way his hands flex like he’s fighting the urge to touch.

“Don’t start.” His voice comes out rough as he turns to the shower, testing water temperature with military precision. Steam rises between us, making his scent stronger—cherry tobacco and gunpowder, threaded through with something darker, more primal. “Not while you’re hurt. Your last dose was four hours ago, and Finn says we need to wait another two before giving you more.”

The medical monitor chirps softly as my heart rate increases, and his jaw tightens at the sound. I watch his reflection in the fogged mirror—the predatory grace of his movements, the tension coiling in his shoulders. Even trying to be gentle, he radiates alpha energy that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

“I’m not that hurt.” A lie that even I don’t believe as pain radiates from my shoulder in waves, but worth it to see the muscle jump in his jaw, to watch his control fray just a little more. The monitor betrays me with another soft beep, and his nostrils flare again.

“Liar,” he growls, but the word holds equal parts frustration and hunger. “I can smell the pain on you. Mixed with...” He breaks off, hands clenching on the shower knob. “You’re going to be the death of me, Glitch.”

I trail my fingers down his chest.

“Cayenne.” My name comes out like a prayer and a curse. “You’re literally wounded.”

“Just my shoulder.” I reach for the hem of my shirt with my good hand. “Everything else works fine.”

He moves faster than I can track, catching my wrist. “Stop.”

“Make me.”

His eyes go liquid black, pupils blown wide. For a moment, I think he might actually do it—might pin me against the wall and show me exactly why that was a bad idea. But then he inhales sharply, fingers flexing against my pulse point.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, then gentler, “Arms up. Carefully.”

“Such a gentleman,” I tease as he helps me work the shirt over my head, movements almost clinical. Almost. But I catch the way his breath hitches when skin is revealed, the way his fingers twitch against my ribs.

“Don’t.” The word comes out strained. “You have no idea how fucking fragile my control is right now.”

I lean into him, letting my breath fan against his throat. “Maybe I want to see you lose it.”

“Christ.” His hands settle on my hips, grip tight enough to bruise. “You’re hurt.”

“Not everywhere.” I roll my hips deliberately against him, satisfied when his fingers flex. “Some parts work just fine.”

He makes a sound like I’m killing him. “You got shot.”

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