Page 68 of Reckless: Chaos

“Professional.” The word comes out clipped as I fight the urge to pace in the confined space. “Military training. Expensive gear.”

“Mercenary,” Aria translates, those deadly nails tapping against her knee. “Hired muscle.”

“The expensive kind.” Cayenne’s voice carries an edge that makes my alpha sit up and pay attention. “The kind Sterling Labs would send.”

Ryker’s hands tighten on the wheel. “We don’t know that.”

“We will.” The synchronized smile from all four women should probably terrify me. Instead, it just makes me want to watch the world burn.

“Remember the rules,” Ryker tries one last time. “No permanent damage.”

“Please.” Willow’s scent carries notes of predator beneath the counselor calm. “We’re just going to talk.”

“Just us girls,” Aria adds with faux innocence.

“Having a friendly chat,” Ginger finishes.

In the rearview mirror, I catch Cayenne’s eyes. The darkness there matches my own, but there’s something else too. Something almost like forgiveness.

Or maybe that’s just the taste of violence to come.

The warehouse looms ahead, all rust and shadows in the dying light. Perfect place for the kind of work that leaves marks. Usually.

“Oh my god,” Aria bounces in her seat. “It’s like a horror movie set.”

“Very aesthetic,” Ginger approves. “The tetanus adds ambiance.”

Cayenne’s laugh carries an edge sharp enough to cut. Our beta’s found her claws again.

Good.

“Ground rules,” Ryker tries one last time as we park. “No weapons, no?—”

“Does nail polish remover count as a weapon?” Aria interrupts sweetly.

“What about hairspray?” Willow adds.

“My winning personality?” Ginger’s PR smile could slice steel.

I catch Cayenne’s eye again. She’s not laughing anymore, but something darker dances in her expression. Something that matches the chaos in my blood.

“Stay behind me,” I tell them, not because they need protection but because I want to see our prisoner’s face when he realizes the drunk girls giggling behind the feral alpha are his real nightmare.

They stumble out of the car in a wave of perfume and barely contained violence. Watching them totter toward the warehouse on high heels, trading lipstick and whispered strategies, I realize we made a mistake this morning.

We thought we were protecting Cayenne from the darkness.

We should have been protecting it from her.

“Well, what do we have here?” Ginger’s heels click menacingly on concrete as we enter. Our prisoner looks up, zip ties straining as he registers the gaggle of drunk girls behind me.

His eyes lock on Cayenne. Something shifts in his expression.

Interesting.

“Oh my god, this place is perfect for TikTok!” Ginger whips out her phone, all influencer energy. “The lighting is so grungy chic.”

“Your cuticles are a disaster,” Aria announces, circling our prisoner with professional disapproval. “What kind of mercenary doesn’t take care of their hands?”

---