Page 8 of Reckless: Chaos

“Very serious.” He pulls into the airstrip where a small plane waits, its pilot already doing pre-flight checks. “Sometimes you need to fall before you can fight.”

“You want me to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?”

“With me.” His eyes meet mine, carrying challenge and promise in equal measure. “Trust me?”

And that’s the real question, isn’t it? Trust. After everything—the virus, the secrets, the weight of what we’re facing—do I trust this man enough to jump into nothing but air with him?

“Yes,” I say, surprising us both with my certainty. “God help me, but yes.”

He puts the car in park, but before he can open his door, I grab his wrist. “Wait.”

His skin is warm under my fingers, pulse steady and strong. Always so controlled, our Finn.

“If I’m going to plummet to my death?—”

“You’re not going to?—”

“If,” I press on, “I’m going to trust you enough to jump out of a plane, I want something real first. Something that’s just yours. Something the others don’t know.”

The playfulness fades from his face, replaced by something more raw. For a moment, I think he’ll deflect, maintain that careful distance he keeps even while letting us close.

“My brother,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, “he lives in Dublin. Haven’t spoken to him since our mum died.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with unspoken pain.

“What happened?”

His laugh holds no humor. “I was supposed to be there. Had a flight booked and everything. But there was a pack emergency—one of Jinx’s episodes. I chose the pack over being with her in her final hours.” His accent thickens with memory. “Connor, my brother, he never forgave me. Said I chose strangers over blood.”

“But they weren’t strangers,” I say softly, understanding the weight of chosen family.

“No.” His eyes meet mine, carrying years of guilt and certainty. “They weren’t. Still aren’t. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder if Connor was right. If I made the wrong choice.”

The confession sits between us, rare and precious. A piece of Finn that even his pack doesn’t see.

“Your turn,” he says, turning his hand to catch mine. “Something real. Something that’s yours alone.”

I swallow hard, because fair is fair, but some truths are harder to voice than others.

“I know who my father is.”

His fingers tighten on mine, but he stays silent, letting me find the words.

“My mom... she didn’t just give me his name. She left me a letter, telling me everything. Who he is, what he did, why she ran.” The truth burns coming up. “I’ve never opened it. It’s still sealed, hidden away where no one can find it. Because sometimes... sometimes I think not knowing is better than confirming your worst fears.”

“When did she give it to you?”

“On her deathbed.” The memory still aches. “Made me promise to only open it if I absolutely had to know. If the truth became more important than the mystery.”

He studies me for a long moment, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Thank you,” he says finally. “For trusting me with that.”

“Thank you for trusting me first.”

The moment stretches between us, intimate in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction and everything to do with shared secrets.

Then he smiles, and the heaviness lifts. “Ready to fall?”

I look toward the waiting plane, heart pounding. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

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