6. Cayenne
Chapter 6
Cayenne
Voyeurism.
Not my thing. At least I didn’t think it was until this very moment, and now it’s all I can think about as Finn drags me to the opposite side of the house. My brain splits between processing my surroundings—security cameras, reinforced windows, at least three different escape routes—and the sounds echoing down the hallway.
The side that doesn’t have two grown men fucking in a hallway—and I want nothing more than to watch. The hussy that lives inside me wants to break free of Finn and run, just to see. Because two men going at it? Hot as hell. Especially when one of them made me come so hard an hour ago I saw binary code.
My fingers twitch with phantom keystrokes, skin crawling like there are ants beneath the surface. The absence of screens creates an actual physical ache behind my eyes, a hunger more primal than food or sex.
I’d kill for just one device—even a smart watch—some tiny portal back to the digital realm where ones and zeros follow predictable patterns, where I understand the rules, where I’m not trapped inside my own skin with nothing but thoughts that loop like corrupted code and the distracting awareness of attractive men whose scents and dynamics I can’t hack or control or?—
“Are you listening?” Finn pauses from whatever the fuck he was saying to look at me. He pushes his glasses up his nose and blinks. It’s so damn adorable I want to squeeze his cheeks. Mess up that perfect composure. See what he looks like when he loses control.
But I don’t.
Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? I always want to push. Always want to see what happens when things break. It’s why I’m in this mess. Why I’m standing here in unicorn pajamas being babysat by a beta who looks like he grades papers for fun while two doors down, an alpha and omega are probably redefining property damage.
“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’ and jerk my head toward the moans. “The stamina on those two is impressive.”
Poor Finn—his cheeks flush a pretty pink color, and damn if it isn’t sexy when he once again pushes those glasses up his nose. Every nervous gesture cataloged and filed away: the way he shifts his weight when uncomfortable, how his eyes dart to the nearest exit, the slight tremor in his hands that speaks of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“Ah well yes.” He stammers, and my brain immediately starts mapping out his weak points. Not for escape—okay, maybe a little for escape—but because I can’t help it. Can’t stop analyzing, can’t stop looking for the cracks in people’s code. “Omega pheromones.”
The words don’t compute.
Error: file not found.
I’ve never been affected by omega pheromones, which is probably why I’m still functioning while Finn looks like he’s about to combust. It’s almost cute how he tries to maintain his professional demeanor while down the hall, Theo is probably?—
No. Focus. Survey the surroundings. Look for vulnerabilities.
“Fucking hell.” I blurt out as I circle the room we’re in. It’s a rec room that probably cost more than every place I’ve ever lived combined. “This entire house is ridiculous.” I whisper to myself, but really I’m counting cameras, noting blind spots, calculating angles.
“Mansion,” Finn corrects, pushing those glasses up again. God, someone needs to tape them to his face. Or maybe just take them off entirely... “This is the family room.” The annoyance in his tone suggests he’s repeated this information while I was mentally hacking imaginary systems.
I should feel guilty. I don’t.
Still I am distracted by the moaning, but I’m trying to focus. Multi-tasking used to be my superpower—running multiple screens, tracking data streams, monitoring security feeds. Now I can barely keep my thoughts in order without something digital to anchor me.
On the far wall is a beautiful fireplace and around it a circular couch, perfect for packs, and above the fireplace is an enormous television. My fingers literally itch to get at its smart system. I bet I could have it reprogrammed in under five minutes. Three if I really pushed it.
But it’s what’s all around the place that makes my eye twitch.
“You guys don’t have a housekeeper?” I question, pinching a pair of boxer briefs between thumb and forefinger like they might bite. The fabric is expensive—everything here screams money—but it’s tossed around like garbage.
“Ah yes well Jinx doesn’t do well with strangers.” Finn grabs the underwear and turns away, probably finally seeing the chaos through my eyes. His embarrassment is oddly endearing, like watching a librarian realize their books aren’t alphabetized.
It looks like a tornado of testosterone hit the place. Pizza boxes. Chinese. More take-out boxes than a dumpster behind a food court. Clothing scattered like breadcrumbs of bad decisions. Hell, there are even empty beer bottles with fruit flies having their own little rave.
“Charming.” I mutter, but my mind is already cataloging. Four different credit cards used for deliveries. Regular patterns in ordering times. Security vulnerabilities in delivery apps that I could exploit... if I had any fucking technology.
Am I a neat freak? Absolutely not. My apartment looks like Best Buy and Radio Shack had a baby and then let it explode. But I can locate every wireless adapter blindfolded, find any USB cable by touch alone. My fingers twitch toward phantom keyboards now, muscle memory seeking the comfort of my customized setup where every component sits precisely 1.7 inches from its neighbor in a chaos only I can navigate.
This? This is almost self-sabotage at its finest. And I get to stay here. Yeah me. Thrilling.
“I’m not cleaning.” I blurt out because if these assholes think for one second I’m here to play maid then they have another thing coming. Though organizing might give me access to their papers, their bills, their routines...
No. Stop planning. Stop analyzing. Stop looking for data points in everything.
“We wouldn’t... We’d never...” Finn groans, shaking his head like he’s trying to dispel mental images. “I’ll deal with it later. There are multiple gaming consoles if you get bored, and Friday nights are pack nights.”
Gaming consoles. My heart actually skips. PlayStation and Nintendo, both hackable with the right tools. A way online. A way out. A way to?—
“She isn’t invited.” Ryker’s voice cuts through my plotting like a knife, the alpha appearing silent as a ghost. For someone his size, he moves like a damn shadow.
“Fuck you too, asshole.” I shout at his retreating back, but my mind is racing. His stealth means enhanced security training. His posture screams military background. Every detail is another piece of the puzzle I need to solve.
I keep my smile carefully hidden as I eye the consoles again. They don’t need to know I once reprogrammed an entire Xbox to mine cryptocurrency. Or that I can turn most smart devices into surveillance equipment with enough time and spite.
“Let me show you the kitchen.” Finn turns on his heel, all proper tour guide despite the chaos.
I linger, scanning the room one last time. Aside from the mess, it’s... cozy. The kind of space that invites lazy Sundays and movie marathons. The nesting blankets piled on the circular couch look soft enough to drown in.
Nope. Not going there. Not thinking about how easy it would be to fit into this space. To belong.
Annoyed with myself—and my apparent weakness for comfortable furniture—I follow Finn into the kitchen, mentally mapping every turn, every door, every possible exit.
“We don’t have a cook,” Finn says over his shoulder, like that’s some kind of character flaw. “We try to rotate who cooks. But Jinx usually orders take out. Ryker burns everything he touches. Theo, well,” he pauses at the island, another blush forming. “He tries his very best. He is an incredible baker though and I like to try new recipes which means I often get stuck cooking.”
Translation: They live on takeout and good intentions. The kitchen, like everything else in this mansion-sized bachelor pad, is a beautiful tragedy. Stop-sign shaped with an island that probably cost more than my entire setup back home. A breakfast nook overlooking a pool that’s begging to have its automated cleaning system reprogrammed.
Everything in deep, dark colors that should feel oppressive but instead just feels... right. Like they designed the space for functionality over aesthetics but somehow got both.
And it’s a fucking disaster.
Which annoys me even more than the living room because this? This is a chef’s wet dream. This is the kind of kitchen that should have its own Instagram. Instead, it has what I’m pretty sure is a science experiment growing in the sink.
I love it. So naturally, I school my features into practiced boredom.
“And you?” I zero in on Finn and those expressive eyes that give away every thought behind his glasses. If I’m going to be stuck here, might as well learn my jailers’ habits.
“I make spaghetti and crock pot meals.” He sniffs and wiggles his nose a moment before he sneezes.
“Allergies?” I question, then add on, “It’s probably the mold from the dishes.” Or the fact that this place obviously hasn’t seen a proper cleaning since... actually, I’m not sure this place has ever seen proper cleaning.
The more I look around, the more I see it—four distinct personalities sharing space but never quite meshing. Theo’s sheet music mixed with Ryker’s tactical manuals. Finn’s academic journals buried under Jinx’s... are those throwing knives stuck in the wall?
“Ah yeah.” Finn sniffs again. “Let me show you to your room.”
“Excellent, do that.” Hopefully it isn’t a mess. But given the state of everything else, I’m not optimistic. My fingers drum against my thigh, coding an escape sequence that exists only in my mind.
“Right, so we thought it best to give you your own space.” He walks over to a door in the kitchen. One with several bolts that he has to unlock.
Every lock is another line of code in my head. Standard tumbler system, nothing fancy. The kind of locks I learned to pick before I learned to drive. The sound of each bolt sliding back sends little sparks of electricity through my nervous system.
“No.” I cross my arms and tap my still-bare feet. “That looks suspicious as fuck.” Like every horror movie ever made. Like every nightmare about being trapped. Like every system I’ve ever wanted to break just to prove I could.
Finn sighs and faces me head on, setting his tablet on the island. The tablet I absolutely do not stare at like it’s water in a desert. “We thought it would be wise for you to have your own space?—”
“In the murder basement?” I scoff, cutting him off. Even as I say it, my mind is already mapping possibilities. Analyzing angles. Looking for weaknesses. “No thank you.”
“It’s not—” he pinches the bridge of his nose, glasses sliding down again. “Will you just look?”
“Is there a television?”
“No.” Of course not. That would be too easy.
“A gym?”
“Not downstairs.”
“What the fuck is down there?” Nothing exciting, that’s for damn sure. Nothing digital. Nothing connected. Nothing that could get me back online, back to my world of ones and zeros where everything makes sense.
“Your things.” He states. “Ryker brought them down already.”
My things. Minus anything with a circuit board. Might as well cut off my arms while they’re at it.
“Is there a way out?”
“Yes.” He looks away.
“You’re lying to me.” I narrow my eyes at him, reading the tells in his posture.
“It’s locked.”
“You’re keeping me a prisoner.”
“We are trying to keep you safe.”
“By locking me in the murder basement?” Every word drips with sarcasm, but my mind is already running scenarios. Calculating odds. Looking for the variables I can exploit.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” I hear Ryker a moment before he tosses me over his shoulder and marches toward the steps.
I take in his impressive dump truck of an ass before I bite it. Hard.
“If you think that is going to deter me, you’re wrong.” He growls, not even breaking stride. “Move.” He tells Finn, who barely gets out of the way in time. “This is for your own good.”
“Lies.” I don’t fight it. Fighting would be stupid. Fighting would mean I’m not memorizing every step, every turn, every potential escape route. “If you’re going to kill me, at least fuck me unconscious first.”
“Fucking hell, woman.” Ryker growls. “No one is fucking you in this pack.”
“Any more,” I correct, just to feel him tense. Just to know I can get under his skin like he’s trying to get under mine.
He growls more. “We are assigned to keep you alive.”
“I am alive.” And I plan to stay that way, preferably somewhere with WIFI and no alpha attitude.
“Not for long,” I hear him mutter under his breath before setting me on my feet. “It’s a full apartment.”
I turn around and?—
Oh.
It is an apartment. Bigger than anything I’ve ever had in my life, which just pisses me off more. All modern furnishings and clean lines. A kitchen that would be perfect for stress baking if I actually baked. A living space that’s probably meant to be comforting but feels like a cage. Doors that lead to what I assume is a bathroom and bedroom.
And a glass door that leads outside. Currently blocked by enough junk to build a small fortress.
That’s when it clicks. The kind of understanding that usually comes with breaking through a particularly tough firewall.
I swing around and glare at the alpha before me. “You plan to lock me down here and leave me here.” I get right up in his face because fuck this alpha. Because fuck any system designed to contain me. My fingers actually twitch with the need to hack something, anything, just to prove I can break out.
“I don’t want you here.” He gets right up in mine, all alpha dominance and barely contained rage. “You are a distraction and an obligation. I need to get back to work.”
“You’re using me.” The words taste bitter, but really, I’d be angry if I hadn’t used his other alpha to help me escape my problems earlier today. Everything’s code if you look at it right—even this interaction.
Input: anger. Output: revelation.
He gives me a snarl. “Of course I’m using you. You are a means to an end and one I don’t want to see or hear from.”
Oh, I’m so going to escape as soon as I fucking can. Not just because I need to, but because he expects me to try. Because every fiber of my being rebels against being contained, controlled, cataloged like some piece of malfunctioning software that needs to be quarantined.
Even so, this is rude as fuck. What the hell am I supposed to do down here? My brain already feels like it’s short-circuiting from lack of digital input. “There is no telling how long I’ll be here,” I toss my hands up. “And there is nothing to do!”
He tries to smile and it is disturbing as fuck. Like he doesn’t do it often enough to even know how to smile, making it look more like a system crash than an expression. “I’m sure you will figure out how to entertain yourself.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Maybe I’ll masturbate in front of the air filtration system after removing the filter just so my pussy scent floods the house.
No.
Maybe.
I grind my teeth. “Fine.” The word is a placeholder. A temporary acceptance while my mind runs background processes, looking for weaknesses.
“Fine.” He parrots before turning around almost right into Finn. “Don’t entertain her.” Then he shoves past Finn and back up the staircase.
Finn looks from me to Ryker then back again, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Before he groans and runs back up the steps after his alpha.
I hear the lock turn in the door, echoing all around me with a finality I’m not used to. The sound sends a shiver through my system like bad code corrupting good data.
I close my eyes, willing my heart to chill the fuck out. I’m still in my jammies. I don’t even have shoes on. Nothing but me, myself, and I. And a USB drive burning against my skin like a digital lifeline.
Once I’ve got my breathing under control, I swing around, taking in the space like I’m debugging new software. Looking for exploits. Testing boundaries.
I hate how nice it is, and it immediately makes me want to set it all on fire. Cozy and modern with recessed lighting over a small sectional. All white and grey. Colors I wouldn’t at all choose.
Everything needs color. Preferably jeweled tones that make everything pop. As soon as I can access any kind of tech, I’m buying paint and pillows on their dime.
No. I’m going to escape, not redecorate. Stop thinking about making it home. Stop imagining movie nights on that sectional or curling up with a laptop while rain hits those windows or?—
“Fuck this.” Stomping like a petulant child—because if they’re going to treat me like one, I might as well act like one—I open the bedroom door and groan at how beautiful it is. A four-poster bed. Cozy sheets. And blankets. A chair and a desk and a door that opens outside.
Again, there’s far too much shit in front of the door to get out but...
I’m going to try.
My eyes land on the suitcases of my stuff. Marching over, I grab my suitcase and unzip it, dumping the contents on the floor. I don’t even think. I react.
This is what happens when I’m angry.
I don’t fucking think.
And I know it.
I still can’t control my reactions as I change into black leggings and an oversized sweater. My hands shake as I tuck the USB drive into my bra—my dirty little secret, my only connection to the digital world I’m being denied. The plastic edge digs into my skin like a reminder: you’re not done yet.
Hair pins. I open the other suitcase, finding exactly what I want. A bobby pin. Then I kneel before the door and work the lock like it’s my submissive. Like it’s just another system begging to be broken.
It takes a few tries but I get it. The sound of a lock clicking makes my pussy wet and the breeze of fresh air sends a gush like I’m a bitch in heat. Code isn’t the only thing I know how to break.
Grabbing a beanie, I swing the door open and glare at the stacks of totes. It doesn’t take too much to push them out of the way. Each movement calculated, each sound monitored. This is just another hack—physical instead of digital.
Then I have to fight through a bunch of bikes, which I debate for a minute stealing until I notice the deflated tires. That won’t do. Someone thought this through. Planned for standard escape attempts.
Too bad I’ve never been standard.
There’s a small concrete staircase that I creep up, peering out to the yard. There’s a beautiful pool that I want to swim in, but it’s spring and I need to escape. Need to run. Need to prove I can’t be contained by alpha commands and locked doors and good intentions.
My heart pounds and adrenaline floods my system. I swallow down the bitter taste of it on my tongue as I dart out and run like the hounds of hell are chasing me to the first tree I see.
Because the hounds of hell may as well be Pack Locke.