6. Theo
Chapter 6
Theo
Some performances leave scars on your soul. I’ve sung enough tragedies to know the weight of them, the way they settle into your bones and change you. But watching terror bloom across that omega’s bruised face, seeing Cayenne’s shoulders straighten like she’s preparing for a blow—this is a different kind of tragedy altogether.
Her words hover in the space between us, vibrating like the final note of a tragedy—the kind that leaves audiences frozen in their seats long after the curtain falls. No one breathes. No one moves. The air itself seems to wait for what comes next.
My mind, trained by years on stage to catch every subtle cue, catalogs details with merciless precision: the way Cayenne’s fingers curl into fists at her sides, how our messenger seems to fold deeper into herself with each passing second, the distant thrum of bass from above that feels less like music now and more like a countdown to chaos.
“Merda.” The Italian tastes like home on my tongue, the familiar syllables escaping before I can catch them. I drag my hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “Ryker is going to dismantle me one limb at a time and enjoy every second of it.”
It’s not the most appropriate response to learning my sanctuary’s been compromised and Sterling Labs is hunting my—our—beta, but gallows humor has always been my shield. The startled laugh it pulls from Cayenne makes it worth it, even if it catches in her throat like broken glass.
My hands move with performance-precise grace, triggering the UV lights that bathe everything in purple revelation. The lack of entry stamp on our wounded omega’s wrist confirms what my gut already knew—they didn’t just leave her at our door. They got her inside. Past all our carefully crafted defenses, past every protection I’ve built to keep my people safe.
“Don’t blame yourself, piccola.” I keep my voice gentle, the same tone I use to calm frightened omegas during their first time on stage. The poor thing looks ready to shatter. “They excel at turning people into pawns. Trust me, I know the weight of those chains.”
Two calls to make. One that will hurt, one that might destroy everything.
Quinn answers first, voice thick with interrupted sleep. “Theo? It’s four in the fucking morning.”
“Code Byzantine.” The words taste like ash and old fears. “Club’s compromised. Sterling Labs made their move.” I watch Cayenne through my lashes, cataloging how she holds herself like she’s already preparing to run. Always ready to sacrifice herself to protect others. “They’re hunting her. In person.”
A stream of creative curses floods the line before: “Ryker’s already calling.”
Of course he is. Because my Alpha has probably been tracking us since we left the mansion, protective instincts warring with his trust in me. He’s beautifully predictable like that.
“Tell him—” But Quinn’s already gone, and my phone lights up with Ryker’s name like an accusation painted in neon.
I answer before he can speak, infusing my voice with all the dramatic flair I usually save for encores. “Before you plot my murder, remember I’m your favorite. The pretty one. The one who makes your coffee exactly right.”
“What part,” his voice could freeze hell itself, and I feel its chill even through the phone, “of lockdown escaped your understanding?”
The bass above shifts tempo—one of our subtle warning systems—and I watch as regular patrons begin their practiced, casual drift toward predetermined exits. My staff moves like a choreographed dance, beautiful in their precision. This, at least, we’ve rehearsed.
“The part,” I say softly, all pretense of playfulness fading, “where I ignore an omega bleeding on my doorstep. The part where I turn my back on everything Sanctuary stands for.” My free hand finds Cayenne’s, both comfort and claim. “The part where I let fear rule me.”
A heavy pause, then: “Status report. Now.”
“They used her to deliver a message.” I meet our messenger’s terrified eyes, trying to convey forgiveness she doesn’t yet believe she deserves. “Sterling Labs isn’t just coming for Cayenne—they’re making a show of it. And my club...” The words stick in my throat like broken notes. “My sanctuary is compromised.”
“Location secure?”
“Running Byzantine protocols now.” I watch through the security feeds as UV lights flicker across the main floor, revealing who belongs and who doesn’t. “Quinn’s team?”
“En route.” A pause heavy with things we never say. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one.”
“No, that’s Finn.” I try for lightness even as my eyes catch something—someone—moving wrong through the crowd above. A shadow that doesn’t match its owner. “I’m the one who makes bad situations look good.”
“Theo.” The warning in his voice carries notes of fear now.
“I know, Alpha.” I watch the shadow pause, its movement too precise, too practiced. Like a dancer marking steps before a performance. “I know exactly what I’ve done.”
I end the call before he can hear the tremor in my voice. He will come for us. They all will. But that shadow above us? It moves like death dressed in designer clothes. Moves like someone trained to make killing look like art.
And its dance is aimed straight at Cayenne.
My world has always been one of performance—of knowing when to command attention and when to fade into the backdrop. Right now, watching that shadow move, I need to be very careful about which I choose.
“Piccola,” I keep my voice low, intimate, like I’m sharing secrets between sets. “Remember how I said some of us keep parts of ourselves hidden?” My fingers tap a rhythm against her palm—not quite morse code, but a performer’s signal. Stay close. Danger.
Her eyes sharpen, that brilliant mind already calculating. She starts to turn toward the security feed, but I catch her chin. Keep her focus on me like we’re just two people sharing space. Like I’m not watching death stalk her through my cameras.
“I always wondered,” she says, playing along though tension thrums through her body, “what else you hide behind those stage lights.”
Above us, the shadow pauses. Adjusts. Like it’s searching for the perfect angle, the perfect shot. The movement carries familiar grace—trained, precise, lethal. I’ve seen that kind of grace before, in mirror-lined practice rooms and combat training.
This isn’t just any assassin. This is someone who knows how to make death beautiful.
“We need to move.” I trace patterns on her skin, grounding us both. “But first—do you trust me?”
“That’s a loaded question for someone who just showed me their secret Batman tunnel.”
A laugh escapes before I can catch it, real despite the danger. This is why she fits with us—this ability to find light in darkness. To make chaos dance.
“My next performance,” I say, loud enough to carry, to sell the story I’m building, “requires a more... intimate venue.”
Understanding floods her features. Smart girl. Already reading the script I’m writing.
I trigger the next phase of Byzantine through my phone—lights shifting, music changing key. To most, it looks like typical club ambiance. To my people, it’s evacuation choreography. They’ll clear the civilians, secure the omega, contact Quinn’s team.
Leaving me free to do what I do best: create a distraction. Put on a show. Keep all eyes on me while moving my most precious audience member to safety.
“Ready for your command performance?” I ask Cayenne, letting my omega allure spiral out. Letting myself become the brightest thing in the room. The thing anyone hunting her won’t be able to help but watch.
Her smile carries edges sharp enough to cut. “Show me what you’ve got, maestro.”
The secure room suddenly feels like a cage—one I built myself, with only one way in and out. Amateur mistake for someone who specializes in escapes.
“We need to move.” I help the injured omega to her feet, mind already mapping routes. “There’s a secondary exit through the storage room. Emergency protocols should have cleared the main club by now.”
“Should have?” Cayenne’s eyebrow raises with perfect sass despite the tension.
“My staff is very well trained in evacuation choreography.” I guide them toward the hidden panel behind a filing cabinet. “Unlike some people, they actually follow instructions.”
“Says the omega who snuck out of pack lockdown.”
“Touché, piccola.”
The panel slides open to reveal a narrow corridor, emergency lights casting everything in red shadows. It’s meant as a last resort—a final escape route for omegas in danger. Ironic that I’m using it to protect a beta.
“Wait.” Our messenger’s voice shakes. “They’ll know I helped you. They’ll?—”
“They won’t touch you.” The promise comes out with more steel than silk. “Quinn’s team is already en route. They’ll extract you to Omega Guardians.” I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth there. “You’re under my protection now. Both of you.”
A crash from above makes us all freeze. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by the distinct click of a door being systematically tested.
They’re searching. Room by room. Getting closer.
“Time to go.” I usher them into the corridor, every performance instinct screaming that we’re being herded. That this is all too choreographed, too precise.
Through the security feed on my phone, I catch glimpses of movement—someone sweeping the club with military precision. The grace in their steps, the methodical search pattern... this isn’t some common thug. This is someone trained. Professional. Someone who treats killing like an art form.
“Cayenne.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Remember when you said you trusted me?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you to run faster.”
The corridor feels endless, emergency lights painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. Each of our footsteps echoes despite our attempts at stealth, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing right into someone’s carefully crafted performance.
“Left here,” I guide them, trying to recall every escape route I’ve planned over the years. The ones I never thought I’d actually need. “There’s a service exit that leads to?—”
Another crash above, closer this time. Deliberate. Like someone’s making sure we hear them coming.
“They might as well send up flares and a brass band,” Cayenne mutters, adjusting her grip on our omega’s waist as the girl’s feet drag against the concrete. Another crash echoes above us, this one deliberately louder than the last.
“No.” The realization hits cold. “They want us to run. Want us to take this exact path.”
Because what better way to catch your prey than to guide them right where you want them?
I pull them to a stop, pressing against the wall as I check the feeds again. The hunter’s movements have changed—no longer searching, but heading with purpose toward the service exit. Like they know exactly where we’re going.
“Theo?” Cayenne’s voice carries an edge of understanding. “Tell me we have a plan B.”
“I always have a plan B, piccola.” I flash her my stage smile, the one that makes alphas lose their minds. “It’s just usually more about costume changes than escape routes.”
A laugh catches in her throat, sharp with adrenaline. “Good thing I look amazing in anything.”
“That’s the spirit.” I key in a code to a maintenance panel, revealing another hidden door. “Although this might involve more crawling through dusty spaces than my usual performances.”
“Your secret tunnels have secret tunnels?” She helps guide our omega friend through first. “Very on brand.”
“Wait until you see the trap doors.”
But the joke dies as another sound reaches us—the soft scuff of expensive shoes on concrete. Too close. Far too close.
“Go.” I push Cayenne toward the opening. “I’ll seal it behind you.”
“Like hell.” Her eyes flash. “I’m not leaving you to play bait.”
“No?” I raise an eyebrow, letting my omega presence fill the space. “Then how about letting me play what I do best?”
Create a distraction. Put on a show. Keep their hunter’s attention while my beta gets to safety.
Because that’s what this all comes down to—protecting what’s mine. What’s ours. Even if Ryker really does kill me for it later.
“Theo...” The protest dies on her lips as more footsteps join the first set above.
“Trust the performance, beautiful.” I press a kiss to her forehead, swift and fierce. “And run like hell when I give the signal.”
Some performances require perfect timing. Others require pure chaos.
I’m aiming for both.
“When the music changes,” I whisper to Cayenne, already pulling up the club’s sound system on my phone, “take the tunnel straight down. No turns. It’ll put you right under Quinn’s surveillance radius.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to remind everyone why I own this stage.”
Before she can argue, I trigger the system. The bass cuts out above, replaced by something darker, heavier. The kind of music that makes blood pump and inhibitions fade. The kind that turns a club into a riot.
“Three,” I start the countdown, watching shadows move at the end of our corridor. “Two...”
The hunter’s footsteps pause, probably trying to assess the change in atmosphere.
“One.”
I slam my palm against the emergency strobe trigger, flooding the space with disorienting pulses of light. In the same moment, I push Cayenne toward the tunnel and step into the corridor, letting my omega presence spiral out like perfume.
“Looking for someone?” I pitch my voice to carry, to command attention. Every performance trick I know wrapped in omega allure.
A figure stands at the corridor’s end—tall, dangerous, dressed in tactical gear that probably costs more than my monthly liquor order. But what catches my attention is the way they move. Fluid. Precise. Like violence turned into ballet.
“Actually,” their voice carries cultured edges, “I was rather hoping to speak with your companion.”
“Funny.” I shift my weight, making sure to draw their eye as Cayenne helps our injured omega through the hidden door. “I don’t recall sending out invitations for this particular show.”
“No?” They take a step closer, and something about their movement sets off every warning bell I have. This isn’t just a professional—this is someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. “I could have sworn I had a standing reservation.”
The words carry meaning I can’t quite grasp, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is buying time, keeping their attention firmly on me while my beta makes her escape.
“I’m afraid,” I let a smile curve my lips, one that’s caught the attention of far more dangerous predators than this, “tonight’s performance is invitation only.”
Three more steps and they’ll be close enough to see the tunnel. Two more and they’ll be in striking distance.
One more and?—
The lights cut out completely, plunging us into darkness so complete it feels solid against my skin. A hand finds my shoulder, fingers gripping with calculated pressure. “Like hell I’m leaving you,” Cayenne’s voice materializes at my ear, warm breath carrying the scent of adrenaline and defiance.
God damn stubborn, beautiful beta.
The emergency lights flicker back, painting everything in stuttered snapshots that my performer’s eye catalogs with precision:
Tactical gear that costs more than my seasonal wardrobe.
Lean build that speaks of deliberate training rather than brute strength.
A black balaclava hiding most of their features.
But it’s the eyes that catch me—green with flecks of gold, startlingly familiar in a way that tugs at my memory. I’ve seen those eyes before, watching me with that same predatory focus. But where?
“Two against one?” The hunter’s cultured voice carries amusement. “How uncivilized.”
“Says the man crashing my private party.” I shift slightly, keeping myself between those dangerous eyes and Cayenne. “I’d say that’s the height of poor manners.”
“Theo.” Cayenne’s hand finds my shoulder, and I feel her tension through the touch. “We need to move.”
She’s right. Every second we stand here is another second for backup to arrive—theirs or ours, and I’m not willing to bet on which gets here first.
But those eyes...
Something about them sets off warning bells that have nothing to do with the immediate threat. Something important. Something I’m missing.
“Movement at the north entrance,” Cayenne whispers, and I realize she’s watching the security feed on my phone. Clever girl. “Multiple targets.”
The hunter takes another step forward, and the emergency lights catch a glimpse of skin between mask and collar. A tattoo, small and precise—binary code, maybe, or some kind of equation, rendered in stark black lines against pale skin.
My lungs seize mid-inhale, the air catching painfully in my throat. Not from recognition, but from the deliberate precision of those lines—mathematical in their perfection, too purposeful to be mere decoration. This isn’t some random mercenary with tribal art. This is someone who wears their purpose like a brand.
Those eyes. That tattoo. The way they move like violence turned to art.
This isn’t just any professional. This is someone trained specifically for this kind of work. Someone who treats hunting like a science.
And suddenly, I’m very, very glad my beta didn’t listen when I told her to run.
“Interesting choice of ink,” I say, letting my omega voice carry those seductive notes that usually make alphas lose focus. The hunter doesn’t even blink. Another warning bell. “Let me guess—corporate loyalty taken a bit too far?”
“Let me guess,” they counter, that cultured voice carrying edges of amusement, “deflection through performance? How very... omega of you.”
The slight pause before omega carries weight. Meaning. Like they know exactly what buttons to push.
“Multiple targets converging,” Cayenne whispers behind me, still working my phone. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before?—”
“Before this gets considerably less civilized,” the hunter finishes for her. “Though I’d say one minute, given your security team’s response patterns.”
They know our protocols. Which means...
“The omega,” I breathe, understanding hitting like a spotlight. “You didn’t just send her as a message. You used her to map our response times. Our evacuation procedures.”
“Very good.” Those green eyes crinkle with what might be genuine appreciation. “I do so enjoy working with professionals.”
“Funny.” Cayenne’s voice carries steel beneath the sarcasm. “I was just thinking what an amateur move it is to monologue while backup gets into position.”
The hunter’s laugh sounds surprisingly genuine. “Oh, I like her. I can see why—” They cut off abruptly, like they’ve said too much.
But I caught it. That hint of personal interest. Of recognition.
Before I can process what it means, Cayenne’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “Company incoming. Both directions.”
“Well then,” the hunter shifts their weight, every movement screaming trained killer, “shall we dance?”
My lips peel back from my teeth, the expression containing too much threat to be called a smile. I roll my shoulders, dropping into a performance stance that’s carried me through a hundred shows and twice as many escapes. “Sorry, darling. But I never perform the same show twice.”
My hand finds the hidden panel behind me, the one I installed after too many close calls with handsy alphas.
“Hold your breath,” I tell Cayenne.
Then I trigger the club’s emergency ventilation system, and everything goes to hell.
Smoke floods the corridor like my special effects team just won the lottery. But this isn’t stage fog—it’s industrial-grade coverage designed to disorient alphas’ enhanced senses. The kind of defense system you install when you run an underground omega sanctuary.
The hunter’s reaction is... interesting. No stumbling. No disorientation. Just a slight tilt of their head, like they’re adjusting to a minor inconvenience.
“Clever,” they say, voice carrying clearly through the chaos. “But ultimately futile.”
“Most of my best performances are.” I grab Cayenne’s hand, already moving. “Exit stage left, piccola.”
We run. Not toward the tunnel—they’ll expect that. Instead, I pull her toward my private dressing room. The one with three different escape routes and enough costumes to make quick changes an art form.
“Your security team is good,” the hunter calls after us, their footsteps maintaining that eerily precise rhythm even in pursuit. “Quinn trained them well. But they’re about to be very, very busy.”
As if on cue, the club’s main alarm starts blaring. Not the evacuation sequence—the full breach protocol. Multiple points of entry.
They planned this. All of it.
“Tell me you have another secret tunnel,” Cayenne says as we burst into my dressing room.
“Better.” I hit the lights, revealing my private domain in all its chaotic glory. Racks of costumes, walls of mirrors, and one very special vanity. “I have a trap door.”
“Of course you do.”
“Performer’s prerogative.” I move to the vanity, fingers finding the hidden catch. “Never give your audience a predictable exit.”
The hunter’s footsteps grow closer, still maintaining that perfect rhythm. Like they’re counting down to something.
“I count four teams converging,” Cayenne reports, eyes on my phone’s security feed. “They’re herding everyone up through the main club.”
“Good.” At her sharp look, I clarify: “Means they’re following standard protocol. Looking for us where they expect us to be.”
“While we’re taking the theatrical route?”
“Exactly.” The trap door opens with a soft click. “After you, beautiful.”
She starts to move, then freezes. Because there, in the doorway, stands our hunter. Smoke curls around their tactical gear like special effects, making them look more phantom than human.
“A trap door,” they say, and I swear I hear something like pride in their voice. “Now that’s what I call style.”
I see the gun before Cayenne does. See the way our hunter’s posture shifts from appreciation to purpose in one fluid motion. My body moves on pure instinct, omega protective drives kicking in despite knowing I’m supposed to be the one being protected.
But Cayenne—my brilliant, reckless beta—moves faster.
“Not his club,” she growls, and then she’s shoving me hard toward the trap door. “Not him.”
The shot cracks through the air like a broken note.
Time fractures into perfect clarity—the kind I usually only find on stage. I catalog every detail with performer’s precision:
The way Cayenne’s body jerks.
The spray of red across my vanity mirror.
Those green eyes behind the mask, widening fractionally. Like this wasn’t part of the choreography.
“No!” A sound rips from my chest, raw and primal, vibrating at a frequency that makes the mirrors tremble and the air taste like copper and fear. But Cayenne’s already moving again, her hand pressing against her shoulder as she kicks the hunter’s knee with devastating accuracy.
They stumble—the first imperfect movement I’ve seen from them. Almost like... like they didn’t expect to actually hit her.
“Trap door,” Cayenne grits out, shoving me again. “Now.”
“Not without?—”
“Yes without.” She manages a smile that’s more grimace. “I didn’t take a bullet so you could argue about it.”
The hunter recovers, raising their weapon again, but something’s changed in their posture. Hesitation where there was only fluid grace before.
Then the ceiling explodes.
Quinn’s tactical team drops through like avenging angels, filling the room with smoke and commands and chaos. I catch a glimpse of the hunter melting away into the shadows, those green eyes lingering on Cayenne for one more moment.
“Took you long enough,” Cayenne tells the tactical team, then promptly collapses into my arms.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, lowering us both to the floor as medics rush in. “I’ve got you, piccola.”
Her blood stains my costume, but all I can think about is how the hunter’s eyes had widened when she went down. How their perfect performance had cracked for just a moment.
Like watching her bleed wasn’t part of the plan at all.
The medics try to separate us, but my omega instincts have taken over completely. I bare my teeth at anyone who gets too close, holding her against my chest as they work around me.
“She needs space,” one of them tries to reason.
“She needs pack,” I snarl, surprising myself with the ferocity. Because she is pack, whether she accepts it or not. Whether Ryker admits it or not.
“Always,” Cayenne mumbles against my chest, “so dramatic.”
“Says the woman who just took a bullet for me.” My voice catches. “That was my role, piccola. I’m supposed to be the tragic hero in this performance.”
“Didn’t read that script.” Her smile is dopey from the pain meds they’ve given her. “Wrote my own.”
Of course she did. My beautiful chaos agent, rewriting all our carefully constructed scenes.
The tactical team secures the perimeter, but I already know they won’t find our hunter. Someone that precise, that practiced, doesn’t get caught unless they want to be.
“Sir?” One of Quinn’s people approaches cautiously. “Alpha Locke is two minutes out.”
“Fantastic.” I adjust Cayenne more securely in my arms as the medics finish bandaging her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell him I died heroically in the firefight?”
Cayenne’s laugh turns into a pained cough. “He’ll just resurrect you to kill you himself.”
“True.” I press my lips to her forehead, inhaling the scent of gunpowder and courage and pure stupid sacrifice. “Worth it though.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes are getting heavy, but she fights to keep them open.
“Yeah.” I watch the door, waiting for our Alpha to arrive and tear my world apart. But I have Cayenne’s blood on my costume and her trust in my arms, and somehow that makes everything else bearable. “Some performances are worth any price.”
Her breathing evens out as she finally lets the medication pull her under. I hold her closer, remembering those green eyes behind the mask. The way they’d widened when she fell. The familiar gold flecks that now haunt my memories.
Something tells me this was just the opening act.
And the next performance might cost us everything.