Page 15 of Reckless Consequences

“I’m fine.” I straighten my spine, chin lifting. “We need to go. Now. Finn doesn’t have much time.”

Ryker moves with surprising speed, closing the distance between us. His hand cups my face, sending a shock through my system. My brain registers him asalpha, safe, mine.

He tilts my face, examining the bruise on my cheekbone from Alexander’s fist. His thumb brushes over it with feather-light pressure that somehow feels deeply intimate.

“What happened?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. The rumble of it vibrates through me, settling low in my belly.

“Alexander happened. Twice.” I try to step back, but he moves with me, his other hand finding my injured shoulder. “The second time, Mona helped. She’s more creative with improvised weapons than expected.”

“You left.” Not a question. An accusation.

My body responds with a confusing mixture of defiance and submission—spine straightening while my eyes want to drop.

“I had to.” I meet his gaze directly. “Sterling was tracking us through our DNA. If I’d stayed, I would have led them straight to all of you.”

“You should have told me. Told us.”

“There wasn’t time?—”

“Bullshit.” His control slips, revealing the rage beneath. I can taste his emotion in the air—bitter copper and smoke layering his cedar-steel scent.

“You ran, Cayenne. Again. Without trusting us to help you.”

The accusation lands because it’s partially true. I did run. But not for the reasons he thinks.

“I made a tactical choice,” I counter, heat rising in my voice. “To protect the pack. To get Finn’s booster. To keep Sterling’s men away from all of you.”

“We protect each other,” Ryker growls. “That’s what pack means. That’s what we are.”

The growl in his voice triggers something primal in me—not fear but recognition. My body responds with a shudder, skin prickling into goosebumps. Jinx’s claiming mark throbs with renewed intensity.

“I know that now!” The words burst out louder than intended, my own voice carrying an unfamiliar timbre that sounds almost like a growl. “I know, okay? I fucked up. But I’m here now, with Finn’s cure, and we’re wasting time arguing about my poor life choices when he’s dying back at that cabin.”

Something changes in Ryker’s expression—the anger transforming. His hand slides from my face to the back of my neck, grip firm but not painful. The pressure sends a cascade of sensations through me—security, submission, arousal, belonging—all tangled together.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice dropping to something that bypasses my brain entirely and hits somewhere deeper. “Don’t ever leave without telling me where you’re going.”

“I won’t,” I promise, surprising even myself. “I’m done running from this. From us.”

The tension between us shifts, electric and dangerous. His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. I lean toward him unconsciously, drawn by something more powerful than gravity.

His nostrils flare slightly. “Your scent has changed again,” he murmurs, surprise flickering across his face. “Still you, but... different. Stronger notes I can’t quite place.”

The virus’s effects, or Mona’s blocker? Or something else entirely?

My answer to his unspoken question is to close the distance myself, rising on tiptoes to press my mouth against his. The contact is electric—nerve endings firing all at once. The kiss isn’t gentle—it’s collision, reconnection, reclamation. His hands tighten in my hair, angling my head to deepen the contact, and my knees buckle, requiring his strength to keep me upright.

He tastes like wilderness and control, like safety and danger in perfect balance. My fingers find purchase in his tactical vest, pulling him closer despite the equipment between us.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, something has shifted between us. The bond with Jinx pulses as if approving the connection, cherry tobacco mingling with cedar and steel.

“Finn,” I remind us both, voice embarrassingly breathless.

Ryker nods once, the tactical commander reasserting control. “The bike’s faster than trying to fix this,” he says, nodding toward my dead sedan.

He swings his leg over the motorcycle. For a moment, I hesitate—not out of fear of the machine, but because of what it means to climb on behind him. To press myself against him. To surrender control to someone else.

“Cayenne.” My name in his mouth is both question and command. “We need to go.”

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