Page 4 of Reckless Consequences

“High praise,” I say dryly, threading the curved needle from the kit. “This is going to hurt.”

“Pain is irrelevant,” she responds automatically, but when the needle first pierces skin, she makes a small sound that’s painfully human. “Slightly more relevant than anticipated.”

I place the first few stitches carefully, trying to minimize her discomfort. The precision required reminds me of circuit board repair—each stitch a connection in a larger system. “So, how many packs has Roman tried to set you up with?”

Mona’s laugh is surprisingly normal—no clinical assessment, no mathematical probability. “Seventeen. All failures. Some more spectacular than others.”

“Tell me about the worst one,” I encourage, continuing to work. Distraction is the best anesthetic we have.

“Dubai alpha with germaphobia issues.” Her smile turns almost mischievous. “I cultivated rare fungal cultures in his private bathroom for three days before the symptoms appeared. Pack betrothal terminated within twenty-four hours.”

I laugh, the sound strange in this dingy bathroom where we’re both bleeding and hunted. “That’s both brilliant and terrifying.”

“What is it like?” she asks suddenly, her voice softer. “Having a real pack? People who... choose you?”

The question catches me off guard with its simple honesty. I pause my stitching, considering. The pack bond pulses with each heartbeat, four distinct threads connecting to something vital inside me. My body temperature spikes at the simple thought of them, skin flushing with a warmth that radiates from within—another omega-like response that my beta body shouldn’t be capable of.

“It’s terrifying,” I admit. “Having people who see all your broken pieces and stay anyway. It’s like having a safety net you never asked for but suddenly can’t imagine living without.”

Mona absorbs this, her usual rapid-fire analysis temporarily silenced. “And the claiming? The physical bonds?”

“That part’s...” Heat rises to my cheeks, remembering Jinx’s mouth on my neck, Theo’s fingers tracing my spine, Ryker’s hands holding me still, Finn taking me apart one touch at a time. My pupils dilate involuntarily, another physiological response that feels foreign in my changing body. “Intense. But good-intense. Like finding pieces of yourself you never knew were missing.”

She nods, processing. “I’ve catalogued pack bonding extensively from observational data, but the experiential component remains elusive.”

“You never wanted a pack of your own?” I ask gently, securing another stitch.

For a moment, her facade cracks completely. “Wanting was irrelevant. Daddy’s perfect omega experiment had purpose, not desire.” She meets my eyes, something raw and genuine showing through. “Until recently.”

I finish the last stitch—fourteen exactly—and dress the wound. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’d make a terrifying but oddly effective pack member. Any alpha pack would be lucky to have you.”

“Highest compliment,” she says, a genuine smile briefly illuminating her face before her clinical mask slides back into place. “Your needlework shows unexpected precision. Effectiveness probability approximately eighty-seven percent.”

“Thanks for the performance review.” I clean the graze—shallow, but close. The sting keeps me grounded, even as my mind drifts to Finn. “Now tell me why we’re here instead of rendezvousing with my pack.”

Mona moves to the window, carefully arranging candy wrappers along the sill. I recognize the pattern—a low-tech but effective motion detection system. Classic Mona, using sugar as security.

“Cough drop?” she asks, placing three more in strategic locations near the door.

“Mona,” I press, the weight of Finn’s deteriorating condition pressing down on me like a physical force. Every second we delay is another second his body fights alone.

“We’re bait,” she says simply, finally addressing my question. “If my calculations are correct, Alexander is tracking us through our genetic signature. A technique I may have helped perfect before realizing daddy’s ultimate application.”

“You’re saying they can find us no matter where we go?” The implications send ice through my veins. I’m suddenly aware of every genetic marker in my body, imagining them betraying me like corrupted code, broadcasting my location to predators.

“Not precisely. The tracking requires close proximity initially. Once detected, the signature creates a distinct pattern that can be followed.” She places the last cough drop against the door. “Like bloodhounds, but with science.”

“So Sterling can track his bloodline? Anyone with his DNA?” The thought makes my skin crawl, imagining invisible threads connecting us to him no matter how far we run.

“He needed baseline samples first—blood, tissue, something with active cellular material,” Mona explains, tapping her fingers in precise sequence. “Once catalogued, the tracking program identifies specific genetic markers unique to Sterling bloodline. Quantum-level recognition patterns. Very sophisticated. Much disturbing implications.”

The fuck?

“Your infiltration of Sterling Labs finally gave him the sample he needed,” she adds, her fingers still tapping that precise rhythm. “The moment you bled on his pristine floors, you became trackable. Your DNA had eluded him until now, despite his years tracking mine.”

I sink onto the bed, processing this new information. “So we’re deliberately letting them find us. Away from the pack. Away from Finn who needs that booster you’re carrying.”

“Correct.” She touches the secure case containing Finn’s medication, her fingers lingering over the clasp. “If Alexander is using genetic tracking, he will follow us, not the pack. We draw him away, confirm the tracking method, then eliminate the threat.”

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