Page 45 of Reckless Consequences

Now these bodies bring calm instead of anxiety.

Five more minutes. Then we become soldiers.

When I extract myself, movements calculated to avoid disturbing them, I catch Cayenne watching through half-lidded eyes.

“Already?” she whispers, voice rough with sleep.

My thumb traces her jaw before I can stop myself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake everyone at 0500.”

She catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends heat through our bond. “Liar. You’re going to let everyone sleep but me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.” The smile feels foreign on my face, but her answering grin loosens something in my chest.

“I’ll help pack,” she offers, already untangling herself.

I should tell her to rest. The version of me from six months ago would’ve ordered it—faster alone, fewer variables, no mistakes. But command isn’t just about protection. It’s knowing when to trust someone beside you. And Cayenne? She’s got a mind that runs tighter than any field manual.

Packing in the dim pre-dawn feels almost like a dance. We move around each other without speaking, her hands already where I need them, mine adjusting to her rhythm without thinking. When her fingers brush mine over the med kit, the touch lingers—warm, familiar. Not distracting. Anchoring.

The last time I prepped for a mission like this, it was just me. Empty room. Cold silence. I triple-checked every buckle like it mattered more than my life. But now? Cayenne’s presence hums beside me like she belongs. And maybe, for the first time, I believe someone else does.

“Scared?” she asks, not looking up from organizing tactical vests.

“Tactically concerned.”

Her quiet laugh warms the air between us. “That’s premium Alpha-speak for scared shitless, isn’t it?”

Instead of answering, I pull her against me, burying my face in her hair. Her arms wrap around my waist, strong and certain.

“We’ve got this,” she murmurs into my chest. “All of us together.”

I allow myself ten seconds of connection before drawing back. The commander demands focus, but the man needs this contact. This reminder of what we’re fighting for.

“Wake Finn. I’ll get the others.”

By 0500, the SUV sits packed and ready, gear stowed in precise configuration. The pack emerges from the cabin in stages—Theo still sleep-warm but alert, Finn moves with careful precision, stronger than yesterday but still not at full capacity, his rain-washed stone scent carrying lighter traces of medicine than before, Jinx prowling with predatory awareness.

“Neutralizer spray before loading up,” I announce, producing canisters. “Extends the spray’s effect for another four hours, but effectiveness still decreases after the five-hour mark.”

Cayenne eyes the spray dubiously. “Is this going to smell like wet dog? Because I’ve had enough terrible cologne experiences for one lifetime.”

Jinx grins, already applying his with practiced efficiency. “Afraid it’ll clash with your natural eau de chaos?”

“Pretty sure that’s your signature scent, not mine.” She wrinkles her nose but allows me to spray her neck and wrists. The neutralizer creates a strange disconnect—I can see her, feel her through our bond, but her scent disappears beneath chemical nothingness.

I try not to smile at their bickering. I really do. But something about my lethal pack acting like squabbling children lightens the knot in my chest. Their banter reminds me what we’re fighting for—not just to stop Sterling, but to preserve this ridiculous, beautiful thing we’ve built.

“Vehicle loadout in two minutes,” I direct, forcing my face back to neutral. The last thing Jinx needs is encouragement for his smartass comments.

Theo pauses before entering the SUV, his hand finding mine. His eyes hold mine, saying volumes without words. “We’re with you,” he says simply.

I squeeze his hand. Once, I would have heard merely tactical support. Now I understand the layers—trust, commitment, choice.

The drive takes us through winding forest roads, predawn darkness providing cover. Conversation flows in tactical shorthand mixed with unexpected connections.

“Finn, run probability assessment on northeast infiltration,” I direct, eyes on the road.

“Seventy-six percent success if guard intel proves accurate,” he responds from the back seat, tablet illuminating his face. His voice carries the roughness that shows the virus remains active. “Drops to forty-three percent if compromised.”

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