Page 96 of Reckless: Chaos

I want to turn it off. Want to shield her from this moment that feels like watching someone peel back their own skin. But my arms have become her only anchor as she watches her father sell salvation to the very people he’s been destroying.

“Of course,” he smiles, and it’s her smile, but wrong somehow. Calculated where hers blazes true. “Sterling Labs will be providing this treatment at significantly reduced costs to ensure all beta citizens have access to?—”

The pancake in the pan starts to smoke.

“Cayenne.” I gentle my voice, trying to reach her through whatever storm is raging behind those green eyes—his eyes. “The food...”

“Let it burn.” Her voice comes out stranger than I’ve ever heard it. Not broken, exactly. But changed. Like watching someone rewrite their own code in real time. “His hands.”

The observation hits me like a physical blow. Because she’s right—those elegant fingers gripping the podium could be hers. Could be the hands I’ve watched fly over keyboards.

“I always wondered,” she continues, eerily calm now, “where I got my perfectionism. My need to control every variable.” A laugh that holds no humor. “Turns out I come by it honestly.”

“You are nothing like him.” I try to turn her away from the screen, but she’s transfixed.

“Really?” That broken laugh again. “Because from where I’m standing, the similarities are...” She trails off as Sterling adjusts his tie with a gesture I’ve seen her make a hundred times. “Genetic.”

On screen, he’s taking questions now. Each answer perfectly crafted, reasonable, concerned. A master class in manipulation that makes my stomach turn.

“My hands might be his,” she says quietly, “but I know exactly what he’s doing with that vaccine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” Now she does turn, meeting my eyes with a focus that terrifies me. “What better way to track betas than to inject them with something you created? Why hunt them down when you can make them come to you?”

The pancake is beyond saving now, filling the kitchen with acrid smoke. Like her words, it leaves a bitter taste that can’t be ignored.

“We should tell the others.” I reach for the stove, trying to salvage what I can. Of the breakfast, of this moment, of her. “Ryker needs to?—”

“No.” She moves suddenly, switching off both TV and burner in quick, efficient movements. Those hands—his hands—steady now with terrible purpose. “No, I think I finally understand exactly what needs to be done.”

Something in her voice makes my approaching heat spike with warning. Makes me want to wrap her in silk and safety and never let go.

Instead, I watch her serve perfect pancakes onto waiting plates, each movement a mirror of the precision we just witnessed on screen.

Like father, like daughter.

Only her hands create rather than destroy.

Right?

“Cayenne.” My voice comes out as something I’ve never heard before—a whine that starts deep in my chest, pure omega instinct calling for reassurance.

She stills completely, then turns to me with softer eyes. “Oh, honey.” Her arms open and I’m in them before I can think, pressing my face into her neck. “I’m right here.”

“Something’s wrong.” I can’t stop the words, can’t control the way my scent spikes with distress. “Everything feels wrong.”

“Shhh.” She strokes my hair, and her hands are nothing like his now—all gentle comfort and genuine care. “It’s just the pre-heat making you sensitive. Here...” She guides me to sit at the counter, sliding a plate of perfect pancakes in front of me. “Eat. Sugar helps with hormone fluctuations.”

I watch her pour coffee, add exactly the right amount of cream—the way she’s learned I like it over these weeks. Every movement precise but full of affection.

“Better?” She settles beside me, pressing her leg against mine.

The contact helps, settling something in my chest. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay.” She cuts into her pancakes, the picture of calm. “It’s not every day you see your father for the first time, but...” She shrugs, taking a bite. “Sometimes life is just complicated.”

Her simple acceptance feels wrong against my instincts, but her steady presence and calm scent make it hard to hold onto my unease. Especially when she starts humming one of my compositions again, still completely off-key but somehow perfect.

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