Page 47 of Reckless Consequences

Jinx checks his weapons with fluid grace. “Not this time. Too much to lose now.”

Understanding passes between us without words.

Through practiced assessment, I establish our observation post and catalog entry points, blind spots, approach vectors. The facility looms before us, all steel and concrete arrogance—Sterling’s monument to his twisted genius. I hate it on sight. Not just for what it represents, but for the way it echoes the man himself: cold, impenetrable, deliberately intimidating.

The weight of command settles deeper with each observation. Too many variables. Too much risk.

Quiet footsteps approach—too light for Jinx, too deliberate for Theo. The pack bond hums with Cayenne’s proximity before she appears.

“You should be resting.” I don’t turn as she settles beside me.

“Pot, kettle.” Without her scent, I feel her through other senses—her warmth, her breathing, the bond pulsing between us. “Find anything useful?”

I pass her the binoculars, our fingers brushing. Even this slight contact sends awareness through our bond—her pulse quickening, her breath catching.

“More guards than we expected,” she observes. “Rotating in patterns of seven minutes east side, five minutes west.”

Her tactical assessment surprises me, though it shouldn’t. “Where did you learn to read patrol patterns?”

“Alexander’s training had some benefits.” Her mouth tightens. “Know thy enemy, right?”

I resist the urge to take her hand. Command means focus, even when every instinct drives me toward comfort. Still, I lean slightly closer, our shoulders touching.

“One of many reasons I need you on this mission,” I admit. “You understand Sterling tactics.”

“Is that the only reason?” Her question carries layers, her eyes finding mine with unexpected vulnerability.

The question hits something deeper—her fear of being valued for function rather than self. I’ve been there, lived that emptiness for years after losing my family. The military valued my tactical mind, my leadership, my strength. No one saw beyond those assets to the man beneath.

Until this pack. Until her.

“No,” I answer, voice low with honesty. “That’s not the only reason.”

Before I can say more, movement at the facility perimeter catches my attention. A guard breaking pattern, checking his watch too frequently. Body language screaming discomfort.

“Look there,” I direct. “Eastern checkpoint, single guard.”

Cayenne studies him. “Something’s off. He’s nervous.”

“Or waiting for something.” I track his movements, noting inconsistencies. “Maybe someone.”

Through the bond, I feel Jinx approaching before I hear him. His steps make almost no sound, but the connection vibrates with his proximity.

“Found something?” His focus immediately locks onto the guard I’ve been tracking.

“Possible opportunity. Guard showing anomalous behavior.”

Jinx studies the man through borrowed binoculars, his posture shifting into hunter mode. “Want me to make contact?”

The request hangs between us, loaded with history. My mind flashes again to concrete walls painted with blood—the aftermath of Jinx unhinged, Jinx broken.

But the man beside me now radiates controlled purpose, not fracturing rage. The bond between us carries his certainty, his stability. And beneath it all, like reinforced steel, his connection to Cayenne—a tether to something beyond violence.

Six months ago, I would have refused, unwilling to risk mission integrity on unstable factors. Now I trust the pack bond as much as tactical assessment—feel the steady strength beneath Jinx’s predatory surface.

“Yes.” The decision forms with surprising clarity. “Shift change provides optimal window. Seventeen minutes.”

His smile carries predatory edges, but his eyes remain clear. “Consider it done.”

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