10. Cayenne
Chapter 10
Cayenne
Boredom is its own special kind of prison. Not the productive kind where you have ten thousand tasks haunting your to-do list, but the suffocating kind that comes with forced inactivity. The kind that makes you acutely aware of every tick of the clock, every breath that isn’t being used for something meaningful.
It’s been a week.
Seven days of being trapped in this bed, watching sunlight crawl across designer walls that feel more confining by the hour. Seven days of well-meaning pack members hovering like I might shatter. Seven days of pretending the world outside this gilded cage doesn’t exist.
Except it does. And I’ve had enough.
I rip off the monitoring bracelet with more satisfaction than is probably healthy. Finn can deal with the inevitable beeping. My shoulder protests with a burning twinge, but if I spend one more second in this bed, I’m going to snap. Not in the fun, sexy way that gets me thoroughly ravished by overprotective alphas. No, this would be the kind of snap that ends with property damage and possibly arson.
God, I miss my girls. I could have spent this week of enforced rest sprawled on Willow’s couch, hacking corporate firewalls and eating takeout. Instead, I had to go and play hero.
The floor is blessedly cool under my socked feet as I swing my legs over the side, yes I can feel the fool through my socks. I’m already dressed—leggings, oversized sweater, thick socks—having won that small battle of independence hours ago during my supervised shower. Now for the bigger prize: fresh air.
Spring has finally chased away winter’s bite, and the need to feel sunlight on my skin has become an almost physical ache. I stretch carefully, working out the kinks of inactivity. My muscles feel sluggish, dormant, like code that hasn’t been run in too long.
The hallway outside my room stretches endless and empty. I have no idea where my self-appointed guardians are, and right now, I don’t care. The siren song of freedom calls too strongly to worry about their inevitable protests.
I need air. Sunshine. Maybe a bottle of wine if I can find where Theo hides his good stuff.
The massive front doors give way under my push, and I burst out into the morning like I’m about to recreate The Sound of Music —tone deaf and entirely too enthusiastic. Birds welcome me with cheerful songs, squirrels scamper through awakening trees, and even tiny bunnies hop through dewy grass.
It’s perfect.
Until the thunderous roar of a motorcycle shatters my Disney princess moment.
Kind of perfect, actually.
Ryker rolls up the driveway like some leather-clad fantasy, because apparently the universe has decided to test my already fragile self-control. He’s the only one reckless enough to ride without a helmet, dark sunglasses hiding eyes I know are probably already disapproving. The leather jacket stretches across shoulders that have no business being that broad, and I’m pretty sure somewhere in his past he was definitely in a motorcycle club. No one wears leather like that without a criminal record.
He parks right in front of me wearing a scowl that should not be as attractive as it is. That’s fine—I don’t need to look at his face to appreciate all that... alpha. It’s like he’s too rugged for reality, and not in that fake country boy way. Give me a leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding alpha with anger management issues any day of the week.
“You should be in bed.” He hasn’t even put the kickstand down yet.
“Shhh. Don’t ruin it.” Why do men always insist on talking when I’m trying to objectify them in peace?
He swings off the bike in one fluid motion that makes my mouth go dry. Then he’s looming over me, hands on hips, radiating disapproval like it’s his job.
“Bed.” The word comes out more growl than speech.
“I’m done with bed.” I blink up at him innocently. “I want that motorcycle lesson we never got around to.”
He crosses his arms, which is just unfair given what that does to his biceps. But then—wait. His lips twitch.
“Alright.” He pivots toward the garage.
I narrow my eyes at his back. That was way too easy. Something is definitely wrong.
Who cares? I’m outside in actual sunshine about to possibly get my hands on actual horsepower. I follow him toward the garage, watching him fish keys from his pocket and hit a button that makes one of the five doors rumble upward.
The sound that escapes me is embarrassingly close to a moan.
“You haven’t seen the garage yet?” He doesn’t look down at me, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Clearly not.” I step into what can only be described as automotive heaven. “A Hellcat?”
“Jinx.” The name carries equal parts fondness and exasperation, like the car’s owner himself.
“Let me guess who’s who.” I trail my fingers along pristine paint jobs, cataloging horsepower and personalities. “The Range Rover with racing stripes is definitely Finn.”
“Obviously.”
“The Mustang is throwing me though.”
“Theo.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Is it?” There’s something knowing in his tone that makes me think there’s a story there. “The Audi’s mine.”
“Of course it is. Practical but powerful, with just enough fuck you money to make a statement.” I swipe a finger across its gleaming surface. “Very on brand.”
He leads me through another door into what turns out to be a full mechanic’s workshop. Tools line the walls in precise order, and the air smells of motor oil and metal.
“Is this where you hide?” I spin in a slow circle, taking in every detail. “Now I know where to find you.”
“Please don’t.” But there’s no heat in the words, just resignation.
“Alright, where’s my bike?” I clap my hands together, wincing slightly when my shoulder protests.
His grin turns predatory. “Right over here.”
He gestures to a corner where sits... what can only be described as a motorcycle having an identity crisis.
“What the fuck is that?”
“That,” he says with entirely too much satisfaction, “is a Can-Am Ryker Rally.”
“It’s yellow.”
“Cyber yellow.” The correction comes with far too much pride. “Picked the color just for you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re way too amused by this.”
“Thoroughly.”
“You got me a bike named after yourself?” The realization hits and I can’t help but laugh. “That’s either the most alpha thing I’ve ever seen or the most ridiculous.”
“Both.” He hands me the keys, lips twitching. “Impossible to tip over, perfect for beginners, but still has enough power to get your panties wet.”
Desire coils low in my belly at his tone. “Baby, my panties have been wet since you rolled up that driveway in all that leather.”
His nostrils flare, pupils dilating behind those damn sunglasses. But instead of rising to my bait, he clears his throat and gestures to the bike. “Reinforced wheels for off-road capability.”
“Like that,” I mutter, straddling the seat and trying to figure out which part makes it go vroom. How many degrees did I get? And I can’t figure out a glorified tricycle?
With a sigh that suggests infinite patience he doesn’t actually possess, he reaches around me to show me the ignition. His chest presses against my back as he starts explaining something probably very important about handling and safety protocols.
Shame I can’t hear a word over the delicious rumble of the engine.
So when I accidentally-on-purpose hit the gas and take off toward the back of the property, I’m only mildly surprised. The snort-giggle-scream that bursts from my lungs is pure joy as wind whips through my hair.
Trial by fire, baby.
The vibration only mildly disturbs my shoulder as I open it up on the back stretch of their property. Sure, gripping the handlebars isn’t exactly what my doctor would recommend, but the rush of speed and freedom is better than any painkiller.
Trees blur past as I get a feel for the controls. It’s different from anything I’ve driven before—more stable than a regular motorcycle but somehow more responsive. Like it’s reading my mind, anticipating each turn before I make it.
Okay, so maybe Ryker was onto something with this choice.
Not that I’ll tell him that.
I circle back, not because I’m sore—I am—or because my shoulder is screaming—it definitely is—but because I’m hungry. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
I find him exactly where I left him, lounging against his Harley with those arms crossed over his chest like some leather-clad wet dream. I try not to stare at the way his thighs stretch his jeans as he uncrosses his ankles.
I fail spectacularly.
My attempt at a smooth stop turns into more of a jerky lurch. Ryker’s there instantly, plucking the keys from my hands like I’m a teenager who just failed her driving test.
“Feel better?” He mouths the words over the dying engine, and I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or genuinely asking.
“Duh.” I straighten up, rolling my shoulder to assess the damage. The movement pulls uncomfortably, but it’s worth it for those precious minutes of freedom.
“Sore?” His eyes narrow behind those ridiculous sunglasses.
“Nope.” We both know it’s a lie, but there’s something satisfying about watching his jaw clench at my stubbornness. “Hungry.”
“Come on. Theo’s been practicing cooking.” He shakes his head, something fond creeping into his expression. “He’s more omega with you around.”
“I happen to love his cooking.” I swing my leg over the bike with significantly less grace than his earlier dismount. “His burnt food is purposeful.”
A sharp ring cuts through our banter, and something in Ryker’s posture changes instantly. It’s subtle—a slight squaring of his shoulders, a tightening around his mouth—but it raises every hacker instinct I possess.
“I have to take this.” He’s already turning away, voice dropping into that alpha-command tone. “Head in.”
“Locke,” he answers as he walks off.
Something pokes at my gut, an instinct I’ve learned never to ignore. Usually, I wouldn’t eavesdrop. In my past relationships, the moment I felt the need to check phones or follow partners, I knew it was already over.
I don’t feel that way with Ryker. This is different. This feels like...
Like when I first discovered those discrepancies in Sterling Labs’ data.
Like when I realized someone was targeting betas.
My feet are moving before I make a conscious decision, following him at a careful distance.
I trail him back to his garage like a ghost, keeping to the shadows of expensive cars. His murmured words float back to me in fragments, each one ratcheting up my suspicion.
“Location?” The word carries weight, importance.
Either he knows I’m following him and doesn’t care, or I’ve gotten better at stealth, because he leaves the garage door cracked just enough for me to peer through. My heart thunders in my chest as he puts the phone on speaker—something he hates doing. Every instinct screams that he knows I’m here, but then he starts rifling through drawers with single-minded focus.
“Did you tell her?” Quinn’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“No.” Ryker’s response comes out like gravel. “She just got shot, and Jinx nearly lost his shit. I can’t...”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. After everything—the shooting, the care, the trust I thought we were building—they’re still keeping secrets.
“Understood, but this won’t end well if you don’t say something.” Quinn’s tone carries warning.
What hurts most is that I didn’t see it coming. Me, who prides herself on finding hidden patterns, on seeing through digital smoke screens. I missed this happening right in front of me.
“I just need time.” The sound of another drawer slamming echoes my rising frustration. “She’s healing.”
“I know, but this is about her. We all know it. You can’t keep her in the dark.” Quinn’s voice softens with concern.
“Where the fuck did she hide that drive?” Ryker’s question makes my blood run cold.
They’re looking for my drive. The one containing everything I found about Sterling Labs, about the beta targeting, about...
“You could, I don’t know, ask her.” Quinn’s suggestion carries a hint of sarcasm that would make me smile under different circumstances.
“I can’t.” Ryker’s head drops, and something in my chest cracks at the defeat in his voice. “Is the location secure?”
Quinn’s sigh crackles through the speaker. “It’s secure and set up for the most part. One more week and the power will be able to handle anything she throws at it.”
Ryker nods as if Quinn can see him, the gesture strangely vulnerable. The sight of it ties my stomach in knots.
“Just ask her to help with the secure location.” Quinn pushes.
“I plan to.” The words send traitorous butterflies through my belly, warring with my growing suspicion. “Theo’s heat is next month.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Quinn’s voice softens. “Are you going to ask her to stay? To be pack?”
“I want to.” Ryker pauses, and the next words slice through me like a blade. “Is it selfish of me to want one more heat with just my omega?”
The pain is immediate and sharp, worse than any bullet. I press a hand to my chest, trying to hold the pieces together.
Quinn hums, the sound heavy with judgment. “Yes.”
The simple answer hangs in the air between them before Quinn continues, “Listen, I have to go. The address is 6883 Lemon Ave.”
The irony of the street name would be funny if I wasn’t fighting back tears.
“Alright, when do you want her there?” Ryker asks, all business now.
“Sunday.” Quinn’s reply is clipped. “Don’t forget to actually tell her instead of keeping it from her and bringing Finn.”
Ryker’s laugh holds no humor. “I mean, he could probably make it work.”
“We need her.”
“No.” Ryker’s response is immediate, final. “You don’t.”
I slip away before I can hear more, my head spinning with revelations. The fresh air that felt so liberating minutes ago now seems thin, insufficient. Two facts circle my mind like predators:
Ryker doesn’t want me at Theo’s heat.
He doesn’t want me anywhere near my own drive.
Well, fuck.