Page 71 of Reckless Consequences

The observation carries weight. Traditional groups follow strict patterns—who leads, who nurtures, who supports. What we’ve built defies those boundaries, focusing on individual strengths instead of our biology.

“We built it together,” I correct gently. “No blueprint, just necessity.”

He nods, understanding. “Mona requested your presence when you’re available. She has updates on the formula counteragent.”

“Is Finn’s condition?—”

“Stable,” he assures me. “This is about global response protocols.”

Relief flows through me, releasing tension I hadn’t noticed, my omega instincts momentarily overtaking my medical training. Despite Mona’s chaotic presentation, her scientific brilliance has proven our most valuable asset in addressing Sterling’s biological warfare. Her lab within Omega Guardians has become command central for worldwide neutralization efforts.

“I’ll go once they wake,” I promise, balancing medical responsibility against omega instinct.

Malachi leaves quietly, respecting pack space. His understanding of designation dynamics makes Omega Guardians the ideal recovery location—secure without feeling confining, medical without feeling clinical.

Cayenne stirs first, still on hacker’s schedule despite exhaustion. Her eyes open with immediate awareness—a survival adaptation I’ve noticed in all Sterling’s children. Her lemon-ozone scent sharpens, carrying those strange notes that fascinate Mona.

“Morning, piccola,” I greet softly, handing her water before she asks.

Her smile shows a rare vulnerability in these private moments. “How’s Finn?”

“Improving. Mona’s treatment is neutralizing the formula effects.” I sit beside her, automatically checking her pulse—an omega habit she tolerates with surprising patience. “How’s the headache?”

“Better.” Her gaze travels to the windows, noting security protocols in reinforced glass and monitoring systems. “Any news?”

I pass her the tablet with Quinn’s daily news compilation. The headlines continue documenting Sterling Industries’ collapse—global investigations, criminal charges against executives, research facilities seized by authorities.

“They found the London distribution center,” she notes, scanning with efficiency. “Mona’s recall codes worked.”

“Her underground network is coordinating with health agencies to identify anyone already exposed. The neutralizing agent is showing ninety-three percent effectiveness.”

She scrolls through images of Sterling facilities worldwide—each under investigation by authorities who look horrified as they discover Roman’s experimentation. The formula was just the beginning—designation manipulation on industrial scale, genetic targeting systems, identity reconstruction technologies.

“Have they found him?” she asks, the question we’ve avoided since Aurora collapsed.

“No.” I choose honesty despite the comfort of uncertainty. “The control hub was buried under three levels of reinforced concrete. Recovery operations are focusing on securing research data and containing potential biohazards.”

Her expression reveals nothing, but through our bond, I feel complex emotions—not satisfaction, not regret, something more nuanced. Her scent shifts slightly, lemon turning sharper.

“He’s either dead or trapped,” she says finally. “Either way, it’s over.”

Finn stirs at her voice, mind surfacing through medication. “Probability of survival under those conditions is about seven percent,” he contributes, eyes still closed. “Assuming independent life support and intact water recycling.”

“Ever the optimist,” Jinx mutters, stretching despite his injuries. His cherry tobacco scent intensifies with wakefulness.

“Realist,” Finn corrects, finally opening his eyes. “Statistical analysis isn’t optimism.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask, professional assessment taking priority over their banter.

Finn considers the question with characteristic precision. “Functional at about seventy-four percent. Cognitive systems near-optimal. Physical recovery proceeding as expected.”

“In normal human speak?” Cayenne prompts, fondness beneath exasperation.

“Better,” he translates with small smile. “The formula effects seem to be stabilizing rather than progressing.”

Ryker wakes last, transitioning from sleep to full alertness without intermediate stages. His commander’s assessment sweeps the room before settling on his pack. His cedar scent intensifies with wakefulness.

“Status report,” he requests, sitting up despite my disapproving look.

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