Page 29 of Reckless Consequences

“Thank you,” Theo whispers against my skin, the words meant for all of us but carrying special weight when his eyes meet mine. “For waiting. For making this complete.”

“You waited for us,” Finn reminds him, hand finding Theo’s where it rests on my hip. “Through suppressants and pain. You held off your heat until we could all be here.”

“Worth it,” Theo murmurs, eyes already growing heavy with approaching sleep. “So fucking worth it.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Chapter8

Finn

I wake to clarity.

After days of fever-corrupted thoughts, the sudden mental sharpness almost hurts. No more chess pieces shifting positions when I’m not looking. No more equations fracturing mid-solution. Just clean, crystalline awareness.

My lungs expand easily. My heartbeat is steady. Temperature slightly elevated, but stable. I hold my breath for five seconds, just to feel the air return. Just to know I can.

The virus is contained. I should feel triumphant. But instead, I find myself mapping the bodies around me—their breathing patterns, heat signatures, the geometric arrangement of limbs. Her head on my chest weighs approximately two pounds, her breathing pattern suggests deep REM sleep, and her hair forms a logarithmic spiral against my skin. These observations should be clinical, but they’re not. They’re... comforting.

Light spills through the windows—early dawn, based on the shadows. Dust drifts in slow spirals. I can’t help tracking the particulate movement, even now. Patterns in the chaos. I’m wrapped in what can only be Theo’s completed nest. It appears random, but functions with perfect harmony—like an elegant equation hidden in apparent disorder.

They’re around me—curled close in ways I never thought I’d deserve. Theo, tucked against my side, breathing slow and even. Ryker’s arm is thrown over all of us like a shield, body angled for maximum defensive coverage. Jinx is down by my feet, one hand looped around my ankle like he doesn’t even know it’s there.

Individual bodies, individual minds, yet somehow functioning as one system. Sterling would find it fascinatingly inefficient. I find it essential.

And Cayenne—our brilliant, reckless Beta—sleeps with her head on my chest, red hair spread across my skin like living flame. Each strand captures light in a way that defies simple description.

The pack bonds pulse with distinct signatures—Theo’s artistic chaos, Jinx’s controlled wildness, Ryker’s disciplined strength, Cayenne’s brilliant adaptability. I find myself mapping these connections, noting how they interact. Strange how what should be unquantifiable feels so tangible.

Everyone bears claiming marks—fresh bites in patterns that suggest connection rather than possession. The improbability of a fully bonded five-person pack containing two Betas would normally require reconsideration. But the evidence presents itself regardless of probability.

“Stop analyzing and go back to sleep,” Cayenne murmurs against my chest, not opening her eyes.

“I’ve been sleeping for days.” My voice emerges raw, scraping against my throat. “Enough to last a lifetime.”

Her eyes open then—green irises bright against the lingering pallor of her skin. The sight makes my chest tighten in a way I can’t explain.

“You’re really awake. Not fever-awake, but actually present.”

“I’m here.” I reach up weakly, brush a strand of hair from her face. The simple contact is unexpectedly warming. “Thanks to you and Mona’s booster.”

She shifts up onto one elbow, studying me with the same focused attention she gives to complex code. I know that look—she’s checking me for errors.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been dismantled and reassembled with some pieces still missing.” I attempt to sit up, my muscles weak and uncooperative. Frustrating for a mind now working clearly. “But functional. The virus has been... contained, I think.”

“Not eliminated,” she says, helping me adjust my position without disturbing the others. Her hands remain steady where mine still tremble—an uncomfortable reversal of our usual dynamic. “According to Mona, the booster suppresses viral activity but doesn’t eradicate it completely. You’ll need regular doses until she perfects the formula.”

I nod, processing. “The virus design is remarkably persistent. Like it’s programmed to resist standard immune responses.”

Cayenne’s expression shifts—a flash of distress before she controls it. “It was programmed, Finn. Specifically engineered to target Beta genetic markers.”

“For maximum mortality,” I agree, thinking of death rates.

“No.” She shakes her head, copper hair moving distractingly. “That’s what we got wrong. It’s not killing Betas. It’s trying to rewrite us. Designation manipulation.”

The solution hits with sudden clarity—elegant, terrifying, and undeniable once seen. Every piece of data suddenly aligns.

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