Page 70 of Reckless Consequences

Theo

Three daysafter Aurora’s fall, and I still taste ash in the air. Finn says it’s just in my head, but that doesn’t make it less real. My heat has settled now as I move through Omega Guardians’ medical wing.

I’ve had heats before. But never like this. Never surrounded by people who saw all of me and stayed. In my family’s villa outside Naples, I was meant to be admired and owned. Here, I’m just Theo. Artist, healer, part of something real.

The private recovery suite Quinn arranged feels both sterile and sacred—a contradiction, but somehow right. Our pack has transformed it into something like home.

Morning light filters through reinforced windows, casting patterns across sleeping forms still tangled together despite recommendations for separate recovery. The beep of monitors plays rhythm to their breathing.

Some instincts override professional advice. Being together heals wounds science can’t measure, a truth my grandmother whispered while preparing me for arranged meetings. Family is medicine, she would say.

I adjust Finn’s IV, then check the latest results from Mona’s treatment protocol. The formula Roman injected him with continues its unpredictable course—not lethal, thanks to his previous exposure, but creating biological anomalies that have Mona buzzing with scientific curiosity. His skin still holds a slight fever, his earl grey scent carrying chemical notes no standard treatment would recognize.

His mind works even in sleep, fingers twitching through dream-calculations like a pianist practicing without a keyboard. The data program he designed continues scrolling on his tablet, tracking Sterling formula distribution and recall statistics. Always working, even in recovery.

I check his temperature, and his breathing smooths under my touch.

Ryker sleeps closest to the door—tactical habit unchanged despite security that would impress even him. His shoulder wound is healing well, though he stubbornly refuses pain meds that might dull his vigilance.

His cedar and steel scent carries protective notes even in sleep. Even now, his body stays oriented toward potential threats, one hand near a concealed weapon.

I’ve learned to change his dressings without disrupting his defensive position—working around his alpha nature rather than fighting it.

Jinx sprawls in apparent chaos that’s actually perfect defensive positioning. His injuries were mostly surface—bruises, cuts, one cracked rib—but his exhaustion runs deeper.

The violence he channeled at Aurora took a psychological toll he’s still processing. His expression softens only in sleep, the predatory edges temporarily smoothed.

His cherry tobacco scent has mellowed from combat-ready to something deeper that emerges only when the pack is safely gathered.

And Cayenne—fierce, brilliant, impossible Cayenne—curls between them like she’s always belonged. Like she’s the final piece that makes everything work.

On the surface, she looks fine—tired, scraped up. Nothing serious. But beneath that skin? Her body’s still fighting. Sterling’s DNA mixed with virus fallout and whatever blocker she took.

Mona tracks it like a puzzle she has to solve, a complex equation needing her particular brand of genius.

And her scent... her scent. Still lemon and ozone, sharp and clean—but with something new underneath. Something deeper. It hits me hard, triggering instincts I shouldn’t have for a beta.

But that’s Cayenne. She’s never fit inside anyone’s definitions, always spilling beyond designation lines, just as I refused to become the perfect omega son my family tried to shape.

The sight of them together satisfies something primal in me. This is what I fought for when I fled arranged marriage in Italy, slipping out of my family’s estate with just a backpack.

This chosen family, these broken pieces fitting together into something stronger than any traditional pack. Not a textbook illustration but a living creation defying categories.

“You should be resting too.”

Malachi’s voice carries concern from the doorway. Quinn’s alpha commands Omega Guardians with steady hand and strategic vision—the perfect complement to Aria’s passionate leadership. His scent carries authority without dominance.

“I’m fine,” I assure him, continuing my checks. “Post-heat recovery is normal.”

His expression looks skeptical. “That’s not what I meant.”

I understand his concern. My omega tendency is to overextend for pack while neglecting myself, a habit my nursing professors warned against.

But what most people don’t understand is that for me, caring for them is taking care of myself too.

“I’ll rest when they’re stable,” I promise, knowing he means well. “The symphony isn’t finished yet.”

His gaze travels across my sleeping packmates, with professional respect rather than judgment. “You’ve built something remarkable here. Something I wouldn’t have thought possible.”

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