Page 84 of Reckless Consequences

“Pack...” I manage, eyes moving between them, trying to connect memory fragments with current reality.

“We’re all here,” Jinx says, unusually gentle. “Complete set. Though you decided to take an extended nap while the rest of us were cleaning up Sterling’s mess.”

“You had us worried,” Cayenne adds, the slight color rising in her cheeks betraying her casual tone. Her fingers trace absently over her claiming mark—our bond made physical, the connection we all chose before chaos separated us.

“Mona’s treatment protocol is working well,” Theo redirects, professional assessment providing a tactical subject change. “The formula is stabilizing in your system. Your vital signs have been improving steadily for the past twelve hours.”

I try for more words, each one an effort: “How much... working?”

Ryker’s lips twitch with what might be amusement. “Still asking for percentages. Some things don’t change.”

“About seventy percent overall, with neural pathways at eighty-five percent functionality,” Theo provides, recognizing my need for accuracy. “Still some motor control issues and potential sensory integration challenges to work through.”

I focus on moving my fingers individually, testing control. Better than expected, but still not right.

“You had us worried,” Cayenne says, fingers still intertwined with mine. “Especially when your heart stopped the second day.”

This information hits me differently than it would have before—not just understanding the danger but feeling what my absence would mean to them. To her. I can see layers in her expression now—concern beneath scientific curiosity, relief beneath tactical assessment. The realization hits me like a physical blow, burning behind my eyes and tightening my throat.

Jinx moves closer, his usual predatory grace somewhat diminished by visible fatigue. “Next time you want to play hero and take a syringe meant for someone else, maybe don’t.”

His words carry more than they say—concern masked by irreverence, fear channeled through humor. I notice what I would have missed before—the slight tremor in his hands, the tension in his jaw, the tiny expressions that betray genuine fear beneath casual delivery.

“Bad... calculation,” I manage.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jinx responds, but his hand finds my shoulder, the brief squeeze saying more than words. My body responds without me telling it to—muscles relaxing under his touch, my head tilting slightly to expose my neck in a gesture my beta side should reject but my altered body accepts without question.

“So,” Cayenne says with forced casualness, “did you hear anything while you were out? They say coma patients sometimes process external stimuli even when unconscious.”

Her question seems specific rather than general. Something she particularly wants to know if I heard. I can see the vulnerability beneath her question. Her scent shifts subtly, the citrus notes sharpening with nervousness.

I sort through memory fragments, piecing together conversations heard through the darkness.

“Jinx suggested sex as therapy,” I recall. “Not supported by medical literature.”

Cayenne’s laughter bursts forth with genuine surprise while Theo’s expression shifts to something between embarrassment and amusement.

“Told you he could hear us,” Jinx looks entirely too satisfied. “And for the record, it totally worked. You’re awake now, aren’t you?”

“Correlation doesn’t mean causation,” I respond automatically.

“And he’s back,” Cayenne squeezes my hand, her smile carrying more meaning than I can fully process. “Same Finn, now with bonus sensory overload.”

I attempt to sit up, overestimating my strength. Ryker moves quickly to support me, his strength making up for my weakness. His cedar scent deepens as his hands steady my shoulders. My beta side should resist his support—but my altered body welcomes it, relaxing into his touch in a way that surprises me.

“Careful,” Theo cautions. “Your body needs time to adjust. The formula changed a lot of neural pathways.”

The new position lets me see more—medical equipment arranged efficiently, personal items scattered around (Cayenne’s laptop, Jinx’s jacket, Theo’s books, Ryker’s gear). Evidence they’ve been here the whole time.

“You stayed,” I say, the simple statement carrying a question beneath. The words come out rough with emotion I can’t suppress, my heightened senses picking up their exhaustion—the shadows under their eyes, the tension in their postures, the lingering scents of fear and determination.

Something warm expands in my chest—gratitude so intense it almost hurts, affection so deep it defies my usual thinking. My scent changes before I can control it, showing vulnerability I would have once hidden.

“Of course we stayed,” Cayenne responds simply. “We’re pack. Nobody gets left behind.”

Her words hit me harder than they should—creating a wave that crashes through me. My chest tightens, my vision blurs with moisture, my skin feels too sensitive.

My breathing hitches, disrupted by emotion I can’t name. Tears build not just from sentiment but from overwhelming sensation. I feel it all at once: the hollow ache of almost being lost to them, the sharp relief of finding my way back, the weight of their constant presence while I drifted in darkness.

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