17. Cayenne
Chapter 17
Cayenne
Insomnia wraps around me like badly written code, each attempt at sleep bringing new errors to debug. My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind refuses to compile, churning through variables I can’t control. The basement apartment feels both too large and too confining, a prison of comfort I didn’t ask for but can’t seem to reject.
Something’s off. An error in my system I can’t quite trace. I’m cranky, I’m grouchy (which are absolutely different states of being, no matter what anyone says), I’m...
“Ow.” The cramp hits like a security breach, tearing through my defenses without warning. “Oh hell no.”
The phone’s LED display mocks me with its 3 AM brightness, confirming what my body’s already screaming—the red wave has arrived. Mother Nature’s monthly reminder that even my biology refuses to play by society’s rules, a rebellion written in blood and pain.
I attempt to execute a careful extraction from the bed, but my uterus launches a denial of service attack that doubles me over. The irony isn’t lost on me—a beta’s body punishing itself for not producing children in a world where our fertility rates barely register as a statistical blip.
That’s when I feel it—the warning shot, the first wave of what promises to be a full-scale invasion.
“Oh no you the fuck do not.” I abandon stealth protocols for pure survival mode, making an awkward sprint to the bathroom that would probably fail every tactical assessment in Ryker’s book. The cabinet offers nothing but pristine white towels and broken hopes—not a tampon or pad in sight.
Toilet paper becomes my temporary defense system as I launch a desperate search through my hastily packed luggage—or rather, the luggage others packed for me while I was busy trying to save the world one hack at a time. The contents spill across the floor like corrupted data, each useless item another reminder that I didn’t plan for this. Didn’t plan for any of it.
Including ending up here, in a pack’s territory, bleeding and vulnerable and trying very hard not to think about how four sets of enhanced senses might react to the change in my scent.
I reach for my period tracking app only to remember it’s on my phone—the one Quinn’s locked away for my own good . My memory scrolls back through recent months like flipping through a bad playlist. February was light—I remember because I was too busy chasing down trafficking rings to deal with anything heavy. January...
The memory clicks into place with the force of another cramp. I was at that bar, the one where we first discovered the trafficking pattern. I hadn’t left my apartment for three days straight, too focused on following data trails to remember basic human needs.
“Well, fuck.” The realization hits harder than any cramp. “This is going to be the period from hell.”
A desperate search of the bathroom cabinets reveals an unexpected mercy—a box of my exact brand of organic tampons, placed with a precision that screams of pack intervention. For once, their over-preparation feels less like surveillance and more like salvation.
Crisis temporarily averted, but sleep remains a distant dream. The clock’s steady advance pushes me toward a decision—stay in my designated safe zone or risk venturing upstairs where four enhanced sets of senses could catch me at any moment.
The basement suddenly feels too much like a cage, and my feet make the choice before my brain can fully process the risks. I find myself in their kitchen, moonlight painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. They’ve been cleaning—a domestic gesture that feels both touching and terrifying. Like they’re making space for me in more ways than one.
Standing here in borrowed pajamas, cramping and sleep-deprived, I realize I’m facing a vulnerability I can’t hide from. The moonlit kitchen taunts me with its newfound cleanliness, a reminder that four very territorial men are trying to make room for me in their lives. My cramps pulse in time with my doubts, each wave a reminder of my body’s betrayal.
Screw this.
I head back downstairs, stripping off my sleep clothes with military precision. The sports bra goes on first, followed by my favorite black leggings. They hug every curve like a second skin, designed for movement and stealth. I check the USB drive taped beneath my bra—my little secret still secure against my skin.
I swipe my shoes and a hoodie intent to put them on when I get to the roof.
Physical activity helps with cramps. That’s what all the wellness blogs say, though they probably don’t mean parkour at 3 AM. But their course calls to me, begging to be conquered. To be mastered.
Jinx showed me the basics, his feral grace making everything look effortless. But I don’t need his cherry tobacco scent wrapping around me like armor. Don’t need Ryker’s tactical precision or Finn’s calculations or Theo’s artistic grace.
I can do this alone.
Have to do this alone.
My bare feet make no sound on the stairs, muscle memory from years of moving through spaces I shouldn’t access. But when I reach their wing of the house, I pause. The hallway stretches before me like forbidden territory, walls lined with photos that catch the moonlight.
I shouldn’t stop. Shouldn’t look. But curiosity has always been my fatal flaw.
The pictures tell a story—not just of pack, but of family built from broken pieces. Jinx and Finn tangled together on that circular couch, both asleep with books fallen open. Theo at his piano, head thrown back in what looks like pure joy. Ryker actually smiling—a rare sight that transforms his whole face—as he works on his motorcycle.
A soft snore drifts from behind one of the closed doors. The sound is oddly endearing, making Ryker seem more human than the tactical machine he pretends to be.
Another door stands slightly ajar, warm vanilla and jasmine scent spilling out. Theo’s room. I find myself wondering if he has a nest in there, like the romance novels describe. A safe space filled with soft things and pack scents. Something in my chest aches at the thought.
Do they all sleep alone? Or do they share space like they share everything else—fluid and natural as breathing? The question sits uncomfortable in my mind, stirring something that feels too close to longing.
No. Focus.
The attic access is just ahead, my real goal. Not these glimpses into a life I can’t have, a belonging I can’t risk. The USB drive pressed against my skin reminds me why I’m here. Why I need to prove I can handle myself.
I reach for the attic ladder, but my hand hesitates. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe in the mingled scents of pack and home and possibility.
Then I climb up, leaving the warmth of their space for the cool promise of pre-dawn air. The rooftop obstacle course awaits, painted in shades of grey and shadow. Perfect conditions for proving I don’t need a safety net.
Time to fly solo.
The attic window opens with barely a whisper—at least Pack Locke believes in maintaining their entry points. I slip through into pre-dawn darkness, taking a moment to pull on my shoes and hoodie against the bitter March air. The fabric still smells faintly of my apartment, of the life I left behind. Of choices I can’t take back.
The obstacle course looms before me, more threatening without Jinx’s steady presence at my back. But that’s the point, isn’t it? To prove I don’t need him. Don’t need any of them.
My period cramps pulse a warning, but I ignore them. Focus on the path ahead—the lower section Jinx insisted I master before trying anything more ambitious. The one I’d argued about, proving his point when I nearly fell.
Not this time.
I drop into position, remembering his instructions. Tuck tighter. Roll across your shoulder, not straight over. My body moves through the motion with more grace than before, muscle memory replacing fear with function.
The first jump comes easier now that I know what to expect. Each handhold feels familiar, my fingers finding purchase where before they’d slipped. I flow through the sequence like following well-written code—each movement leading naturally to the next.
When I reach the first peak, triumph floods my system better than any painkiller. I did it. Clean execution, no alpha safety net required. The growing light paints the mountains in shades of possibility, and for a moment I let myself feel it—pure, uncomplicated victory.
A breeze carries the mingled scents of pack from their open windows below, reminding me that even this small win comes with complications. That everything in my life now walks the line between independence and connection.
But up here, in this moment, I’m just me. Just Cayenne proving that beta doesn’t mean weak. Doesn’t mean needing protection.
Even if part of me is already cataloging which parts of my success I want to show Jinx. Which improvements might make Ryker’s jaw clench with reluctant approval. How Finn would calculate my progress and Theo would turn it into art.
Screw it. Another run through the course. This time with a little more style.
After all, what’s the point of flying solo if no one sees you soar?
The second run feels like dancing. My body remembers where to grip, when to push, how to flow from one obstacle to the next. The moves that felt impossible yesterday now come with a fluid grace that surprises even me.
Each landing sends tiny shocks through my system, but the pain feels cleansing. Better than lying in bed counting ceiling tiles and feeling sorry for myself. Better than overthinking every touch, every look, every moment where I almost let myself belong.
I pause at the highest point of the beginner’s course, sweat cooling on my skin despite the pre-dawn chill. Below, moonlight silvers the tops of pine trees, their branches swaying in the pre-dawn breeze. The forest wraps around the mansion like a protective wall, shielding us from the chaos of Puritan City beyond. Somewhere past this manufactured peace, past the careful isolation Pack Locke has built, Sterling Labs’ secrets wait to be exposed. Somewhere in that distant city, betas are dying while I play ninja warrior on a pack’s rooftop.
But for once, the guilt doesn’t crush me. Maybe it’s the endorphins. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of proving—if only to myself—that I’m not helpless. Not weak. Not just some beta who needs four dominant men to keep her safe.
Screw it. One more run.
This time I add my own flourishes—a twist here, a roll there, movements that feel more like self-expression than survival. My period cramps have faded to background noise, overcome by the pure joy of movement.
I nail a particularly tricky sequence, one that had given me trouble yesterday, and have to bite back a victory cry. The sound wants to bubble up from somewhere deep, somewhere that feels suspiciously like happiness.
Dawn breaks over the mountains just as I complete the circuit, painting everything in shades of gold and promise. I’m sweaty, sore, and probably in for one hell of a lecture when they catch me—because let’s be real, they always catch me.
But standing here, breath steaming in the morning air, I feel something I haven’t since this whole mess started.
Powerful.
Free.
Like maybe I don’t have to choose between being strong and being protected. Between independence and connection. Between flying solo and having a safety net.
The sun crests the horizon, and I swear I catch a whiff of cherry tobacco on the breeze.
The thrill of success hums through my veins, making me cocky. Making me reckless . The more advanced section of the course beckons—the one Jinx specifically warned me against trying alone. The one with wider gaps and steeper drops.
But I’ve just crushed the beginner’s run. Three times. And the growing light makes every handhold clear as day.
Don’t , whispers the sensible part of my brain. The part that calculates risks and plans escape routes.
Do it , urges the part of me that jumps between buildings and hacks secure systems.
Guess which part wins?
I eye the first real challenge—a leap to a higher ledge that requires more upper body strength than I probably possess. The smart thing would be to wait. To train. To let them teach me.
I’ve never been good at smart.
The jump starts well enough—my feet find the right launch point, my hands reach for the grip Jinx had pointed out yesterday. But somewhere between takeoff and landing, my body remembers it’s fighting a monthly civil war. The cramp hits mid-air, turning graceful movement into desperate flailing.
Time stretches like corrupted data as I realize I’m not going to make it. Not going to stick the landing. Not going to?—
Strong arms catch me with mathematical precision, absorbing the impact like it was calculated down to the newton. A familiar scent of earl grey and rain-washed stone surrounds me as I find myself cradled against Finn’s chest.
“Interesting training technique,” he says mildly, those clever eyes studying me through slightly fogged glasses. “Though your trajectory suggested a 73% chance of injury without intervention.”
Of course he calculated the odds. Of course he’s here exactly when I need him. Of course the beta I least expect to find on the roof at dawn is the one who catches me.
“I had it under control.” The lie tastes weak even to me.
“Did you?” His smile holds more understanding than judgment. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to prove something that doesn’t need proving.”
I should argue. Should squirm out of his arms and defend my independence. Instead, I find myself melting into his warmth, my body betraying me in new and interesting ways.
“How long were you watching?” I finally ask.
“Long enough to see you master the basic course.” He adjusts his hold, but makes no move to set me down. “Long enough to know you’re stronger than you think. And maybe not as alone as you pretend to be.”
Just as his words warm my heart his next ones freeze me.
His nostrils widen and his body thrums with tension. “You’re bleeding.”