Page 94 of Reckless: Chaos

Tonight I let myself pretend this is just another evening. Let myself listen to Theo’s music drifting down, to Jinx’s manic laughter echoing through vents, to the subtle sounds of a home I never meant to find.

“I’ll come back,” I whisper to the room, to the carefully arranged pieces of myself I’m choosing to leave behind. Not running away. Just running toward something that needs finishing.

The mark on my neck tingles—not quite a bond, but maybe a promise. Maybe enough to lead me home when it’s all over.

If I survive what comes next.

Chapter 21

Theo

My skin prickleswith fever-bright sensitivity, each nerve ending firing in discordant patterns. A bead of sweat traces my spine like a misplaced note, too early, too insistent. My body composes a symphony I’m not ready to conduct. My sheets stick to places they shouldn’t, heavy with sweat that carries none of the satisfaction of performance or passion.

Just discomfort. Wrongness.

The mirror offers no comfort—my reflection fever-bright and restless. Dark hair plastered to my neck, tattoos seeming to writhe with my unease. Something’s coming. Something that tastes like change and endings and broken promises.

My fingers tremble against the sheets, searching for citrus and electricity where only my scent remains. My throat tightens around her name, unsaid but pressing against my teeth like a prayer. Each inhale feels hollow without the bite of her lemon-sharp presence weaving through my approaching heat.

The thought of spending this heat without Cayenne feels wrong in ways I can’t explain. But pack protocol demands I speak with Ryker first. Our alpha needs to approve any changes to heat arrangements, especially with a beta. Through our pack bonds, I can feel him already awake, probably doing his morningsecurity checks. His presence pulses with quiet strength, steadying my racing thoughts.

When he passes my door, his scent carries understanding. Protection. Permission not yet granted but being considered. My omega preens at the attention, even as my human side tries to maintain composure.

We’ll need to talk about this.

But first, I need to figure out why everything feels so off-balance. Why my heat’s early. Why Cayenne’s scent carries notes of goodbye beneath her usual citrus and electricity.

I stumble into the hallway, seeking cooler air. The calendar hanging by my door catches my eye—the one where I meticulously track my cycles. Red circles mark my heats, as predictable as a metronome. Except...

“That can’t be right.”

I trace the dates with shaking fingers. Two weeks. I should have two more weeks of freedom, of control, of being more than just biology. But my body composes to its own rhythm, always has. And right now it’s playing a symphony of warning.

The mansion feels different in these pre-dawn hours. Quieter, like holding its breath. No Jinx prowling the halls, no Ryker checking security systems, no Finn with his precise movements and knowing eyes.

Just the impossible scent of... cooking?

I follow my nose to the kitchen, drawn by curiosity stronger than discomfort. The scene that greets me stops me in the doorway, caught between warmth and warning.

Cayenne stands at the stove like she belongs there, which is the first sign something’s wrong. In two months, I’ve never seen her do more than make coffee and occasionally toast. Yet here she is, wearing one of Jinx’s oversized shirts, hair pulled back in a messy bun, actually cooking.

She’s humming too—one of my compositions, though she’s absolutely murdering the tempo. The domesticity of it all makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with approaching heat.

“Since when do you cook?” I lean against the doorframe, cataloging details my omega instincts insist are important. The tension in her shoulders. The way her movements carry too much precision, like she’s performing rather than just being.

“Since I discovered your fancy coffee maker only works if properly bribed with breakfast.” She doesn’t turn around, focused on whatever’s in the pan. “Also, your calendar is wrong.”

“What?”

“Your heat tracker.” Now she does look at me, and something in her eyes makes my skin prickle. “It’s off by about two weeks.”

I move closer, drawn by the scent of what appears to be... “Are those actually edible pancakes?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” A smile flickers across her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I contain multitudes.”

“Multitudes of what? Hidden culinary talents?”

“Family recipes.” The words come out bitter, and she turns back to the stove too quickly. “My mom used to say if you can follow code, you can follow a recipe. It’s all about precise measurements and timing.”

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