15. Jinx
Chapter 15
Jinx
There’s something beautiful about watching your alpha lose an argument to four drunk women. Ryker stands in the doorway, all leather and imposing presence, while they systematically destroy every objection he raises. The chaos of it settles something in my fractured mind—like watching a particularly satisfying explosion.
“No,” he says for the fifth time, but his voice carries less conviction than the first four.
“Yes,” they chorus back, swaying slightly but determined. The PR one—Ginger—is using words like optics and crisis management while Cayenne’s eyes spark with that dangerous light I usually see right before something explodes.
The feral part of me wants to join their mayhem. The protective part wants to lock them all in the basement until the world makes sense again. The rest of me just enjoys the show.
“You’re not interrogating our prisoner.” Ryker tries for alpha power, but it slides right off them like water off kevlar.
“Of course not.” Willow’s omega counselor voice could probably talk down a bomb. “We’re just going to have a friendly chat.”
“With the man we caught trying to kill us.” His jaw works overtime.
“While looking completely harmless.” Aria examines her nails—those perfect, deadly points that could probably double as lock picks.
“Absolutely helpless,” Cayenne adds, and something in my chest clenches at her tone. It’s the same one she used this morning, playing docile while plotting revenge.
My little beta’s learned some tricks.
“Jinx.” Ryker turns to me, probably hoping for backup. “Tell them this is insane.”
I consider it. Consider the prisoner waiting in my old PCA cleanup site, probably expecting more alpha intimidation. Consider how these women could destroy him without leaving a mark.
“Let’s give them their shot,” I offer instead, earning four identical grins and one betrayed alpha glare.
Sometimes the best kind of chaos is the kind you don’t see coming.
“I’m driving.” Ryker cuts in because of course he does. Can’t let the feral alpha behind the wheel with precious cargo.
Fair enough. My hands haven’t stopped shaking since this morning’s violence. Since watching our beta’s face crumple when she realized what we’d done.
The women pile into his SUV like it’s a clown car, all giggles and whispered plans that probably violate several Geneva Conventions. Cayenne ends up wedged between her friends in the back, looking more alive than I’ve seen her in weeks.
Guilt tastes like copper in my mouth.
“So,” Ginger leans forward between the seats, her PR polish cracking to reveal something sharper. “Tell us about our guest.”
“Professional.” The word comes out clipped as I fight the urge to pace in the confined space. “Military training. Expensive gear.”
“Mercenary,” Aria translates, those deadly nails tapping against her knee. “Hired muscle.”
“The expensive kind.” Cayenne’s voice carries an edge that makes my alpha sit up and pay attention. “The kind Sterling Labs would send.”
Ryker’s hands tighten on the wheel. “We don’t know that.”
“We will.” The synchronized smile from all four women should probably terrify me. Instead, it just makes me want to watch the world burn.
“Remember the rules,” Ryker tries one last time. “No permanent damage.”
“Please.” Willow’s scent carries notes of predator beneath the counselor calm. “We’re just going to talk.”
“Just us girls,” Aria adds with faux innocence.
“Having a friendly chat,” Ginger finishes.
In the rearview mirror, I catch Cayenne’s eyes. The darkness there matches my own, but there’s something else too. Something almost like forgiveness.
Or maybe that’s just the taste of violence to come.
The warehouse looms ahead, all rust and shadows in the dying light. Perfect place for the kind of work that leaves marks. Usually.
“Oh my god,” Aria bounces in her seat. “It’s like a horror movie set.”
“Very aesthetic,” Ginger approves. “The tetanus adds ambiance.”
Cayenne’s laugh carries an edge sharp enough to cut. Our beta’s found her claws again.
Good.
“Ground rules,” Ryker tries one last time as we park. “No weapons, no?—”
“Does nail polish remover count as a weapon?” Aria interrupts sweetly.
“What about hairspray?” Willow adds.
“My winning personality?” Ginger’s PR smile could slice steel.
I catch Cayenne’s eye again. She’s not laughing anymore, but something darker dances in her expression. Something that matches the chaos in my blood.
“Stay behind me,” I tell them, not because they need protection but because I want to see our prisoner’s face when he realizes the drunk girls giggling behind the feral alpha are his real nightmare.
They stumble out of the car in a wave of perfume and barely contained violence. Watching them totter toward the warehouse on high heels, trading lipstick and whispered strategies, I realize we made a mistake this morning.
We thought we were protecting Cayenne from the darkness.
We should have been protecting it from her.
“Well, what do we have here?” Ginger’s heels click menacingly on concrete as we enter. Our prisoner looks up, zip ties straining as he registers the gaggle of drunk girls behind me.
His eyes lock on Cayenne. Something shifts in his expression.
Interesting.
“Oh my god, this place is perfect for TikTok!” Ginger whips out her phone, all influencer energy. “The lighting is so grungy chic.”
“Your cuticles are a disaster,” Aria announces, circling our prisoner with professional disapproval. “What kind of mercenary doesn’t take care of their hands?”
He stiffens at mercenary . Amateur.
“I have a nail kit in my bag,” Willow offers, all helpful beta energy. “We could give him a makeover while we chat!”
“Girls,” Cayenne sways slightly, playing up the tequila. “Focus. We’re here because...” She scrunches her nose adorably. “Why are we here?”
But I catch the way our prisoner tracks her movement. The recognition in his eyes.
“Sterling’s daughter,” he mutters, then looks like he wishes he hadn’t.
The giggles stop.
“What did you just call me?” Cayenne’s drunk act vanishes like smoke.
Shit.
This might be a longer night than we planned.
“I didn’t...” The prisoner catches himself, but the damage is done.
“No, no.” Ginger waves her phone like a weapon. “Please, continue. This is so much better than my usual content. My followers will eat this up.”
“You can’t?—”
“Post this?” She grins. “Honey, I’m already live. Say hi to my two million followers.”
She’s not, of course. But the fear that flashes across his face is real enough.
“Oh my god,” Aria perches on the arm of his chair, invading his space with predatory grace. “Are you saying our Cayenne is, like, secret royalty? That’s so fetch.”
“Nobody says fetch anymore,” Willow sighs, but she’s moved closer too, her scent carrying notes of steel beneath the sugar.
I lean against the wall, content to watch. Even Ryker’s stopped protesting, fascination winning over protocol.
“You know,” Cayenne examines her nails like they hold secrets. “It’s funny. All this time trying to figure out Sterling Labs’ endgame, and the answer just walks right into our hands. Well, stumbles. After getting shot.”
“I won’t tell you anything.” But his voice wavers.
“You already have.” She looks up, and there’s nothing drunk in her expression now. “The question is, what else are you going to share with my bestie’s followers?”
“Two million viewers and counting,” Ginger adds cheerfully. “Oh look, someone’s already identifying your face. Amazing what facial recognition can do these days.”
Our prisoner pales. “You’re bluffing.”
“Maybe.” Cayenne shrugs. “But here’s the thing about being Sterling’s daughter...” Her words are slow as though they taste like ash in her mouth. “I learned from the best how to make people disappear. Digitally speaking, of course.”
“Speaking of disappearing,” Aria produces a nail file from somewhere. “These cuticles really need to go.”
“Did you know,” Ginger scrolls through her phone, “that Mercury is in retrograde? That’s, like, so bad for keeping secrets.”
“The worst,” Willow agrees, sorting through her truly terrifying collection of nail care implements. “Mercury retrograde just makes everything come out.”
The prisoner’s eyes keep darting between them and Cayenne, like he can’t quite believe this is happening.
“Speaking of things coming out,” Cayenne drops into a chair across from him, kicks her feet up on his armrest. “Let’s talk about Sterling’s little tracking program. The one that keeps alerting him every time I breach their systems.”
His jaw clenches. Bingo.
“Oh em gee,” Aria gasps, still wielding her nail file with menacing precision. “Is that why they always know? That’s like, super creepy stalker behavior.”
“Totally gives me bad ex-boyfriend vibes,” Ginger agrees. “Like that time Brad kept showing up at all my favorite coffee shops because he tracked my Instagram posts.”
“It’s not—” The prisoner catches himself again, but we all hear it. The defensiveness. The need to explain.
“Not like that?” Cayenne’s voice turns silk-soft. Deadly. “Then tell me what it’s like. Tell me how dear old dad keeps finding us. Because either you tell me...” She nods at Aria, who’s moved the nail file dangerously close to his throat. “Or we let the girls get creative.”
“You don’t understand,” he grits out. “The program, it’s not just tracking. It’s...” He swallows hard. “It’s in everything. Every system you’ve touched. Like digital breadcrumbs.”
“A virus?” The sharp intelligence in Cayenne’s eyes burns through any remaining pretense of drunkenness.
“Better.” Something like pride creeps into his voice. “It’s quantum-based. Self-replicating. The more systems you hack, the more it spreads. Every keystroke, every breach—it all leads back to him.”
The implications hit me like a physical blow. Every system she’s touched. Every life she’s tried to save.
She’s been leading him right to them.
“Every system?” Cayenne’s voice drops low, dangerous. “So when I tried to help those betas?—”
The nail file slips. Sort of. If you can call Aria’s precise flick of her wrist a slip.
The prisoner’s howl echoes off concrete as his pinky nail parts ways with its finger.
“Oopsie.” Aria examines her file with professional interest. “Mercury retrograde is really affecting my hand-eye coordination.”
Something hot and hungry unfurls in my chest watching her work. Been a while since I’ve seen someone weaponize a beauty routine.
“Oh no,” Willow’s counselor voice carries perfectly feigned concern. “We should probably clean that. I have this great new sanitizer. Only burns a little.”
“You’re insane,” the prisoner gasps. “All of you.”
“Rude.” Ginger doesn’t look up from her phone. “I’m just documenting your spa day. Speaking of which, that cuticle damage is definitely going viral.”
I catch Cayenne watching me, probably waiting for me to intervene. Instead, I give her my best feral grin. The one that makes most people run.
She grins back.
“Now,” Aria shifts to his next finger, nail file catching light like a blade. “Let’s talk more about this quantum program. Unless you want the full mani-pedi experience?”
The prisoner’s gaze flicks rapidly between Aria’s perfectly manicured hands and my expression, his pupils dilating with the same recognition prey shows when it realizes the flashy movement was never the predator—it was merely herding them toward the real threat lying in wait.
“You know what’s really trending right now?” Ginger scrolls through her phone. “True crime podcasts. Especially ones about corporate coverups.”
“Ooh, we should start one!” Willow claps her hands. “I’m thinking Manicures and Murder for the title.”
Another slip of the nail file. Another howl.
“Mercury retrograde, am I right?” Aria tsks at the mess. “But look how much better that nail bed looks without all that damaged tissue.”
My grin probably isn’t helping the prisoner’s comfort level, but I can’t help it. There’s something poetic about torture by beauty routine.
“The program,” Cayenne prompts, looking supremely unbothered by the small spots of blood now staining concrete. “How does it work?”
“I can’t—” He breaks off with a whimper as Aria examines his next finger with professional interest.
“You know what this reminds me of?” She pulls another implement from her kit. “That time I had to remove Mrs. Henderson’s acrylics. Remember that, Cayenne? When she didn’t want to tell us who was harassing the omegas at her country club?”
“Hard to forget.” Cayenne’s smile carries teeth. “Didn’t she lose three nails before she started naming names?”
“Four,” Willow corrects. “The fourth one was an accident though.”
“Just like this one’s about to be.” Aria’s hand slips again.
The scream this time carries surrender, and I can’t help but admire how terrifying she looks—all pink hair and delicate features, like some kind of torture fairy wielding salon implements instead of a wand. The blood on her perfect manicure should look out of place.
It doesn’t.
“The program,” he gasps, eyeing her hands like they’re loaded weapons. Which, fair. “It’s embedded in Sterling Labs’ security systems. Every time someone tries to breach them, it attaches to their signal like a... like a parasite.”
“Tracks them home?” Cayenne’s voice could freeze hell.
“Worse.” He flinches as Aria hums and reaches for her kit again. “It infects every system they touch after that. Creates a web. The more you hack, the more it spreads, until?—”
“Until every beta I tried to help led him right to them.” The temperature in the room drops with her words.
“Like digital breadcrumbs,” Ginger muses, still recording. “Or a trail of bodies.”
“Speaking of bodies,” Aria selects a particularly wicked-looking cuticle tool. “I’m thinking this nail needs reshaping. Unless there’s more you’d like to share?”
“The warehouse!” The words burst out of him. “On Thirteenth Street. That’s where they’re keeping the core server. The one controlling the program. Please—” He eyes the tool in her hands. “That’s all I know. I swear.”
“Pinky swear?” Aria asks sweetly. “Oh wait...”
I actually laugh at that one. Can’t help it. There’s just something beautiful about watching someone elevate torture into performance art.
“Take the girls outside,” Cayenne orders, her voice carrying steel that wasn’t there an hour ago. “I need one more minute with our friend.”
“Cayenne...” Ryker’s tone carries warning.
“Just one question.” She doesn’t look away from our prisoner. “About dear old dad.”
Something in her voice makes me step closer, protective instincts warring with curiosity.
One wrong move and he is dead. Hell if he even blinks at her wrong I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head.
“Let’s go plan our podcast launch,” Aria chirps, but she squeezes Cayenne’s shoulder as she passes. Understanding passing between them.
“Don’t forget to get his good side,” Ginger waves her phone as Ryker herds them out. “Lighting’s everything for true crime content.”
Once the door closes, Cayenne leans forward, all pretense of drunk party girl evaporating. “Tell me something. Did he know? When my mother ran—did he know she was pregnant?”
The prisoner’s laugh holds no humor. “Why do you think she had to run?”
The truth hits her like a bullet. I can smell it in her scent—the moment everything she thought she knew shatters and reforms.
She stands, smoothing her shirt with steady hands that betray none of the turmoil I can smell rolling off her. “Thank you for the confirmation.”
“You’re just like him, you know.” The prisoner calls after her. “The way you think. The way you?—”
The door slams so hard the hinges crack. Not from me closing it. From me throwing him—chair and all—into it.
“Jinx!” Ryker’s voice barely penetrates the red haze descending. “We need him alive.”
Need is such a strong word.
Metal screeches as I rip the chair leg free, taking zip ties and probably some skin with it. The prisoner’s scream cuts off as my hand finds his throat.
“The way she thinks?” My laugh probably isn’t helping Ryker’s concerns about my stability. “Let me tell you how she thinks.”
The bones in his throat feel so fragile under my fingers. Like I could just...squeeze.
“She risks her life to save people.” Each word comes out like broken glass. “While daddy dearest hunts them down like animals. She loses sleep trying to protect them. While he...”
Something wet trails down my arm. Blood from his torn nails or his throat. Don’t care which.
“Jinx.” Cayenne’s voice cuts through the chaos in my head. “He’s not worth it.”
“But he could be fun.” The words come from that dark place inside, the one that likes to count the ways people can break. “I know fifty-seven ways to remove fingernails. Want to see?”
“Later.” Her hand on my arm feels like a tether to sanity. “We need to get to that server.”
Reality bleeds back in slowly. The prisoner’s purple face. Ryker’s tactical stance, ready to intervene. The fresh blood on Aria’s pink nails.
“Fine.” I release him, watching him crumple like the waste of space he is. “But if you ever compare her to him again...”
I lean close, letting him see all the creative ways I’m imagining his death.
“I’ll show you exactly how different they are. One body part at a time.”
His whimper follows us out into the night. Music to my fractured mind.