Page 88 of Reckless Consequences

Instead of fleeing or launching into a scientific monologue about inappropriate physical contact, Mona simply adjusts her clothing and says, “Your enthusiasm is... not unpleasant.”

From Mona, that’s practically a marriage proposal.

“Drinks,” Aria announces, holding up the wine bottle. “Now.”

In the kitchenette, Aria bumps my shoulder gently. “Your sister is something else.”

“That’s diplomatic.”

“Quinn’s been reviewing her operational files,” Aria says more quietly. “What she did under Roman’s nose for all those years...” She shakes her head. “I’ve seen hardened operatives who couldn’t pull off half of what she managed.”

“Any updates on the Aurora recovery?” I ask, the question that’s been lingering since the facility collapsed.

Aria’s expression softens with understanding. “They finally reached the control hub yesterday. Alexander’s report was confirmed—Roman’s body was recovered. It’s really over, Cayenne.”

Relief floods through me, starting at my shoulders and washing downward. Muscles I hadn’t even realized were tight—in my neck, my shoulders, the small of my back—suddenly release, creating a dizzying lightness.

My scent changes—the sharp edge of anxiety softening, smoothing out. My skin cools, like stepping into shade after too long in the sun.

I rub my shoulder where Alexander’s knife found its mark, phantom pain flaring.

“At least we’re all recovering well now,” I say, pushing away the darker thoughts. “The pack is finally getting back on its feet.”

“Finn’s recovery was remarkable,” Aria agrees. “Mona’s final formula worked better than anyone expected.”

I nod, grateful beyond words that he pulled through. For a while there, we weren’t sure if he would. “The benefits of having a chaos-genius on your side.”

I take a steadying breath and reach for the wine. “Let’s get through tonight first.”

When we return with drinks, Mona is demonstrating something with hand gestures that has Ginger laughing so hard she’s crying and Willow looking both impressed and slightly scandalized.

“To unlikely alliances,” Aria says, raising her glass. “And unexpected victories.”

We drink to that, five women from wildly different backgrounds finding a moment of connection. The sweet burn of wine settles my nerves, and for a moment, I can almost pretend this is normal—just friends gathering, no virus, no Sterling threat, no lingering shadows of what we’ve survived.

“So,” Willow says, leaning forward after our second round of drinks, “tell us about your underground network. How many Sterling facilities did you actually infiltrate?”

Something shifts in Mona’s demeanor—the manic energy stilling, her focus sharpening. For a moment, I see past the chaos-omega persona to the strategic mind beneath.

“Forty-three facilities,” she says. “Seventeen countries. Two hundred twelve operatives.”

“All while working under Roman’s nose,” Ginger adds, her voice soft with amazement. “That must have been terrifying.”

“Fear is inefficient,” Mona says automatically, but something flickers across her face—a vulnerability so brief I almost miss it. “Though certain situations created... significant stress responses.”

“Like what?” I ask, genuinely curious. Despite our genetic connection, I know almost nothing about her actual experiences—what it was like to live under Roman’s control all those years while systematically destroying everything he built.

She considers my question, rolling a candy between her fingers. “Test subject extractions carried highest risk,” she says finally. “Particularly omegas from the enhancement program.”

“Enhancement program?” Willow asks, her beta directness cutting to the heart of things where an omega might circle the subject more carefully.

“Roman’s terminology for omega modification.” Mona’s voice turns clinical, but I don’t miss how her hands tighten around her glass. “Rewiring designation response patterns. Enhancing submission reflexes. Suppressing autonomy.”

The room goes still. Even through the scientific language, the horror is unmistakable.

“And you got them out,” Ginger says softly, her usually energetic presence suddenly still with focused empathy, a rare moment of calm intensity from her.

Mona nods, her fingers tapping a sequence against her glass. “Two hundred seventeen successful extractions,” she says. “Eighty-six percent survival rate.”

---