Page 50 of Reckless Consequences

The connection pulses between us, strengthening bonds that will stretch but not break. Each scent intertwines, creating something that belongs only to us—not alpha, beta, omega hierarchies but something more complex and balanced.

Then it’s time.

We separate with military efficiency, each moving toward assigned positions. The absence of physical contact feels stark, but the bond remains—a silent network keeping us connected even as distance grows. The claiming marks on my neck throb with my heartbeat, a physical reminder that intensifies as they move further away.

Finn and I move through shadow toward the northeast access point, timing our approach to match Marcus’s security override. His steps are nearly silent beside me, but I catch the subtle hitch in his breathing—the virus aftereffects he’s trying to hide.

“You good?” I whisper as we pause behind a maintenance shed, noticing how he leans slightly against the wall, conserving energy in a way the others might miss.

“Functionality at approximately eighty-seven percent.” His eyes meet mine in the darkness, a brief tremor running through his hand as he checks his watch. “Acceptable parameters.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His hand finds mine, gives it a quick squeeze. Simple. Steady. “I’m good,” he promises, voice low. “Promise.”

The moment stretches between us, weighted with things we don’t have time to say. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed his discomfort, wouldn’t have cared. Now I catalog every microexpression, every subtle note in his scent that indicates pain disguised as determination.

Then the security light blinks from red to green—our signal.

We move.

The maintenance entrance appears ordinary—standard keypad, retinal scanner, corporate security. But beneath the pedestrian technology, I sense something more sophisticated. Something that hums with recognition as I approach, calling to the Sterling DNA that Mona’s blocker is fighting to suppress.

“Sixty seconds,” Finn murmurs, watching the countdown timer on his tablet. “Marcus’s override ends at 01:47 precisely.”

I place my palm against the biometric scanner, feeling my blood responding to the technology. The sensation is intimate—like Sterling designed this lock specifically for me. For us. His children. My skin tingles where it contacts the scanner.

The scanner hesitates, red light pulsing against my skin. My heart stutters. This is it. This is where Sterling’s genetic tinkering either betrays us or saves us.

Then it happens—a rush of heat floods my system, starting at my palm and racing through my veins. My vision sharpens dramatically, colors intensifying. I catch Finn’s scent despite the neutralizer—rain-washed stone with notes of paper and ink I’ve never detected before.

Green.

The door hisses open, revealing sterile corridor beyond. We slip inside with practiced synchronization, closing the door silently behind us.

“Northeast access secure,” Finn murmurs into his comm, voice barely audible.

“Acknowledged,” comes Ryker’s response. “Proceed to objective.”

As we move deeper into the facility, the Sterling DNA continues its rebellion against Mona’s blocker. Only three hours since Theo administered the fresh dose, and already I can feel it weakening, the claiming marks on my neck throbbing as we move further from the pack, and a strange heaviness settles in my chest—an awareness of stretch, of distance growing. Through this connection, I catch fragments of the others—Ryker’s tactical focus, Jinx’s controlled aggression, Theo’s steady vigilance.

We move through the facility like ghosts, following Mona’s intel and Finn’s memorized floor plan. The clinical sterility of Aurora’s corridors creates perfect contrast to my chaotic thoughts. Everything here is straight lines and pure function—Sterling’s mind made manifest in steel and fluorescent light.

In flashes, the Sterling DNA flares, overriding the neutralizer. In those moments, my senses expand—catching the lingering scent of an alpha guard who passed through an hour earlier, detecting the vibration of distant machinery through my feet.

Finn’s hand signals our next move, his gestures precise despite the subtle tremors I pretend not to notice. The virus may be contained, but its aftereffects linger in tells only pack would recognize.

We pass a wall of gleaming Sterling Industries logos, and memory crashes through me without warning—my mother frantically packing our things, eyes wild with fear.

“We can’t stay. He’ll find us.”

“But why?” Seven-year-old me, confused and frightened.

“Because he thinks he owns us, baby. And Roman Sterling always collects what he thinks belongs to him.”

I blink the memory away, refocusing on our route. Second right, third door, maintenance shaft. Each step measured, each movement calculated for minimal sound. The genetic blocker feels increasingly ineffective, Sterling DNA asserting dominance with every passing minute.

Finn’s hand brushes mine as we navigate a tight corner, and something unique flares between us—not just emotional connection but a cognitive harmony. Without speaking, I understand his assessment, the probabilities he’s calculating. He seems to receive my intuitive analysis with equal clarity, our minds linking to create something greater than either of us alone.

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