Page 110 of Reckless Consequences

We are Pack Locke. Unorthodox, impossible, and absolutely unstoppable.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Epilogue: Cayenne

6 Days Later

The walls here used to echo.

Not anymore.

Mona called this place a research outpost—clean lines, stone floors, built for observation, not living. Now it smells like us. Cedar and ozone. Sweat and cinnamon. Heat and dust and something soft that might be peace. I notice each scent with the same focus I once applied to security algorithms, while my enhanced senses—courtesy of Sterling’s virus that tried to rewrite me—detect how the scents have merged into something uniquely ours. A signature as complex as our pack bonds.

It’s ours now. Not by ownership. By presence. By scent. By bond.

Theo painted the archway last night in soft golds and streaks of dark red. “Firelight,” he said, when I asked what it was supposed to be. “And maybe you.” His omega scent had softened when he said it, warm vanilla notes rising as his pupils dilated to take in my reaction.

Behind me, Jinx swears as he drops a bowl. Ceramic shatters. His alpha scent spikes with cherry sharpness—not anger but the particular energy of his chaos overflowing into physical space.

“Wasn’t me,” he calls automatically, but his heartbeat quickens subtly—a change my enhanced senses catch from across the room.

“Statistically improbable,” Finn says from the couch, not looking up from his tablet. His beta focus is absolute, yet somehow I can feel the way his awareness extends through our pack bond, tracking each of our positions with care.

“Statistically sexy,” Jinx fires back, which earns him a snort from Ryker and an eye-roll from Theo, who’s already sweeping up the mess with a broom he swears he didn’t buy. Ryker’s cedar scent intensifies slightly—his alpha version of amusement—while Theo’s omega instincts trigger an immediate nesting response, fingers flexing with the need to restore order.

I walk through the space slowly. The nest now takes up an entire room. We spend most if not all of our evenings in there. Doing very naughty, delicious pack things that leave scent markers so strong my enhanced senses can identify exactly who touched whom and how. My body responds to the memory with a flush of heat that travels from sternum to fingertips.

Ryker still checks the doors at night, but only once. His alpha territorialism shows in efficient patrols rather than hypervigilance, his muscles relaxing with each confirmed security point.

Finn lets Mona use the basement for lab work without hovering, his beta need for control evolving into trust that still requires him to count her footsteps from three rooms away.

Theo’s finally stopped pretending he doesn’t like sleeping in the middle, his omega nature thriving on the multiple contact points, his body producing elevated oxytocin that affects us all.

Jinx has carved out a tiny training space on the deck, just big enough to throw knives and curse in peace, his alpha energy finding productive outlets instead of destructive ones.

Finn’s completely recovered now. The formula that nearly killed him has finally settled, leaving him with enhanced perception that lets him read a room’s emotional currents as precisely as its structural dimensions. I watch his pupils dilate as he looks up from his tablet—expanding to take in more light, more data, more of us—while he processes both the scents in the air and the subtle shifts in our postures.

His beta precision has evolved into something that bridges designation gaps, making him both more and less than what he was before. His nightmares about neural pathways rewiring themselves have stopped. Yesterday, he called his family in Dublin—a full conversation without statistics or probability calculations. Just connection. When he hung up, he smiled in a way I’ve never seen before—open, unguarded, complete. His scent had bloomed with notes I’d never detected before—something earthy and warm beneath the usual sharp analytical edge.

My ownhybridstatus has stabilized too. The headaches have faded to occasional whispers, and the sensory spikes have mellowed into something I can almost control. My body processes these new inputs like lines of code—analyzing, sorting, translating scents into emotions.

Sometimes I can smell emotions before they’re spoken, catching the citrus-bright notes of happiness or the peppery edge of fear. When Jinx is about to do something reckless, my palms tingle with warning seconds before he moves. When Theo needs emotional support, I feel pressure at the base of my skull. My beta mind still fights these alpha-like sensory abilities, trying to organize chaos into predictable patterns while my altered biology embraces the unpredictability.

Mona didn’t stay.

Not full-time, anyway.

She works at Omega Guardians now—their first on-site medical lead who can out-diagnose a virus and out-stare a feral alpha. She comes by once a week to calibrate her gear, restock bandages, and argue with Theo about scent layers in shared fabrics. He pretends not to listen, his omega receptors belying his disinterest as his pupils track her every movement. Finn records every word, beta memory storing information for future reference. Jinx offers her gum and asks if she’s learned to smile yet, his alpha posturing hiding the protective pheromones he releases whenever she enters our territory.

I think she has. Once.

Willow and Aria are due tomorrow. My enhanced senses already catching phantom traces of their scents at the perimeter of my awareness. Ginger might show up today with half a bakery in her bag and a theory about emotional scent anchoring, her beta practicality wrapped in nurturing behaviors that defy designation stereotypes. Alexander sends encrypted updates every few days with words like progress and regret tucked inside. He’s working with international authorities to dismantle what remains of Roman’s network—trying to balance atonement with survival. My body still tenses at his encrypted signature, muscles remembering danger while brain processes new data.

None of them scare me anymore. My threat assessment has recalibrated, no longer triggering fight-or-flight responses at every approach.

I curl onto the couch beside Theo, his hand finding mine without looking, his omega scent immediately warming with notes of vanilla and contentment as our skin connects. My mind notes the increase in his skin temperature—0.4 degrees—while my enhanced senses register the oxytocin release that travels from his body to mine through touch.

Ryker is already there, back braced against the wall like he’s guarding something sacred, his alpha posture maintaining sightlines to all entry points even as his cedar scent wraps around us with protective intensity.

---