21. Jinx
Chapter 21
Jinx
Sadness drips like the melting icicles outside my window. Drip. Drip. Each drop echoes the hollow space in my chest where control should live. The snow is dying, and something inside me dies with it. Something feral. Something that needs the pristine white to keep the darkness at bay.
Burrow. Burrow. Suffocate.
My thoughts spiral like water circling a drain. I track each icicle’s descent, silently willing them to fall. To shatter. To mirror the fractures in my mind that I can’t seem to piece back together.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Fall, fall, fall.
“Jinx.” Knock-knock-knock.
Ryker’s scent hits me before his voice does—cedar wrapped up in concern. He always finds me when the demons get too loud, when the silence in my room becomes a symphony of broken thoughts. It’s been days since the sledding, since I watched Cayenne’s laughter paint colors across the snow. I woke up this morning with something primal scratching beneath my skin, begging to break free.
“Jinx.” The warning in his tone promises property damage. Last time, the hinges didn’t survive.
I wrench the door open before he can say my name again. Let him come in. Let him see the chaos I’m barely containing. I cross my arms over my bare chest, a futile barrier between his judgment and my instability.
He stands there in full tactical black—cargo pants, turtleneck, shit-kicking boots, and a beanie pulled low over his shaved head. His face carries that look of disapproval that makes my molars grind together.
“You’re hiding,” he says, leaning against the door frame like he owns it. Like he owns everything. Including me.
“I’m processing.” The words taste like lies on my tongue. My eyes catch on the yarn that’s spilled across my pristine floor—green, like Cayenne’s eyes. I was making her a scarf to match her hat. Another attempt at control through creation instead of destruction.
“You have a job.” I flex my fingers, taking in more details—the mud on his boots, the tension in his shoulders. “You had a job.”
“A little bit of both.” His steel-gray eyes turn murky, like storm clouds gathering. “We need to talk about it, but we can’t have that conversation if I don’t know where your head is at.”
“I’m not going to go rogue.” Again. The word hangs unspoken between us, heavy with shared memories of blood and violence.
Hopefully.
My mind spirals through scenarios, each one darker than the last. As long as no one hurts Theo. Or Cayenne. Or Finn. Ryker can bleed a little. The thought slips through before I can catch it, and fuck—I’m really not okay.
I drag my hands over my scalp, forgetting about the baseball cap until it hits the carpet with a soft thud. The pristine carpet. Everything in here is pristine, military-clean, because my head is fucked enough without adding chaos to my surroundings. Some days, the order of this room is the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.
The bag of yarn topples as I throw myself into my chair, spilling more green across the floor. Green like her eyes. Green like spring. Green like life. I focus on the color because it’s safer than the red that sometimes floods my vision.
Ryker follows, settling into the opposing chair that’s barely big enough to contain his frame. In another life, I might have found it funny. But humor feels distant now, like something I once knew but can’t quite remember.
“Is it helping?” He nods toward the yarn, his voice softer than most would believe possible.
I reach down, letting the soft cotton slide between my fingers. The repetitive motion of crochet usually helps—loop, pull, create instead of destroy. “No,” I answer honestly, because lies between us are more dangerous than truth.
“Maybe we should?—”
“No.” The word rips out of me, sharp and final. “No more therapy.”
“Jinx.”
“I said no.” The yarn falls from my suddenly numb fingers. My heart rate spikes, memories of white walls and restraints flooding back. “They’ll send me to psych. Want another eval. Lock me up again.” I meet his eyes, letting him see the raw fear I usually hide. “I can’t go through that again.”
He holds my gaze, and I feel him testing our pack bonds, measuring my stability against the potential risk. The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we never say about my broken pieces and his attempts to hold them together.
“Alright,” he runs a hand down his face, exhaustion bleeding through his usual control. “But you need to talk to one of us. And I might regret saying this, but Cayenne is grouped in that us statement now.”
I hide my smile in the shadows, giving him just a nod. The mention of her name sends electricity through my veins—both calming and dangerous, like everything about her.
“Tell me about the job.” I press forward, desperate for something to focus on besides the chaos in my head. Something concrete. Something real.
“Talk first.”
“Fuck, man, just give me something.” The words scrape out of my throat. How can he not understand? I need this. Need something to plan, to anticipate. Something to keep the darkness at bay. “I need this.”
Ryker stands suddenly, as though his next words require movement. “She complements us, you know.” He paces, his boots silent on the carpet. “The snowball fight. The sledding.”
“She picked out all our blind spots.” I say what he can’t quite bring himself to admit.
“In seconds.” There’s something like awe mixed with fear in his voice.
But I knew. From the moment I caught her lemon scent in that bathroom, I fucking knew. It was like an invisible thread wrapping around my guts, tying us together in ways I couldn’t explain if I tried. I would have given her the world that day. All she wanted was to fuck.
I was down with that too.
“Talk to her.” He pushes off the wall. “Then we’ll talk.”
“You’re shutting me out.” The accusation falls flat because we both know the truth.
His hand lands heavy on my shoulder, grounding me. “You,” he squeezes once, “shut us out first.”
He leaves me there, picking at yarn like I can somehow knit myself back together. But as he opens the door, her scent hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.
Lemon. But not just any lemon. Sweet lemon, like summer sunlight trapped in custard. It makes my fucking mouth water.
She stands there with her fist raised to knock, looking like water in a desert. Black tights hug curves that make my hands itch to touch. An oversized sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing skin that I remember tasting. Her hair’s piled in a messy bun on top of her head, showing off a neck I want to sink my teeth into.
“Oh, hey.” Her voice carries notes of uncertainty. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
Ryker looks back at me, and I can feel his knowing smirk through our bond. Asshole.
“You aren’t.” He says, and the weight of his earlier words hangs between us. Talk to her.
“Right.” She draws the word out, clearly not buying it. “Any whore,” another deliberate pause that makes something primal stir in my chest, “I’m missing the hoodie I wore sledding. Any idea where it could be?”
Ryker’s head snaps toward her, and for a moment, I see amusement crack through his stern facade.
Oh, we know exactly where it went. Our little klepto omega strikes again.
“I do believe,” I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees, using the position to drink in more of her scent, “that our resident omega collected it.”
A blush paints her cheeks pink, and her mouth forms a perfect oh that sends my mind places it shouldn’t go. Places filled with memories of what else that mouth can do.
Ryker shakes his head and walks away, but not before sending another push through our bond. Talk to her.
I slam the connection shut.
Cayenne watches him leave before turning back to me, confusion drawing her brows together. “Really? Why would he steal my hoodie?”
“He’s an omega glitch.” I watch as she moves into my space like she owns it. And fuck if she doesn’t look right here, among my ordered chaos. Her presence both soothes and aggravates something wild inside me.
“And?” She claims Ryker’s abandoned chair, pulling her legs up underneath her. The casual way she makes herself comfortable sets off warning bells in my head. No one gets comfortable around me. No one should.
“Your scent.” I kick my yarn bag further under my chair, though her sharp eyes have probably already cataloged it. “You’re a glitch.”
“My scent...” The wheels turn behind those green eyes. I can almost see her processing, connecting dots that most betas never even notice. “Oh.”
She settles deeper into the chair, and I find myself memorizing the way she fits there. How her presence somehow makes my pristine room feel less like a cage and more like a shelter.
“He likes your scent. Calms him.” I pause, weighing my next words. “He’s probably getting close to a heat.”
Another complication we’ll have to navigate. Another chance for everything to go wrong.
“I’ve never had an omega like my scent before.” Her analytical mind is clearly running scenarios, trying to make sense of pack dynamics she was never taught. “We aren’t a scent match though.”
Something in my chest aches at her confusion. At how the world has failed betas by keeping them ignorant of their place in our dynamics. All because some fucking politician decided they weren’t part of the equation.
They are. She is.
“Scent matches aren’t what you think they are.” I offer, knowing I’m walking a dangerous line between truth and protection.
“Alright hot shot,” her eyes narrow playfully, but there’s steel underneath. “What are they?”
“Complicated.” The word barely scratches the surface.
“You’ve been hiding.” She shifts topics so fast it gives me whiplash, going straight for the jugular with precision that would make Finn proud.
“No. I’m processing.” The lie tastes bitter.
“That’s bullshit and we both know it.” She rolls her eyes, and it shouldn’t be sexy, but everything about her hits different. Makes the darkness in my head recede and advance all at once.
I could tell her. Tell her about the thoughts that plague me. About how sometimes I lose time, come back with blood under my nails and gaps in my memory. About how I count exits and catalog weapons and plan escape routes even in my own home.
I could tell her how sometimes I wake up screaming, convinced I’m back there, strapped down while they try to fix what’s broken in my head.
I could tell her how seeing her in my space makes me want to destroy everything that could hurt her, including myself.
“You want to know why I’m really processing?” The darkness claws at the edges of my mind, demanding to be heard. Because she looks too fucking perfect in that chair. Too comfortable. Too trusting.
And trust gets people hurt.
Gets them killed.
“Tell me.” Her voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. She has no idea what she’s asking for.
I stand, needing to move, to put distance between us. “You know we’re on hiatus. That the pack’s been benched.” My hands clench and unclench at my sides. “Want to know why?”
She doesn’t answer, but I can smell the first hints of unease in her scent. Good. She should be afraid.
“We’re the psycho squad.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “The ones they send in when everything else fails. When they need someone who doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty.” I turn to face her, letting her see the monster that lives behind my eyes. “When they need someone who’s already broken.”
Her pulse jumps. I can hear it.
“Last job, six alphas dead. Not injured. Not detained. Dead.” The memories flash through my mind—blood on my hands, bones crushing beneath my fingers. “They were trafficking omegas. Using them for...” I can’t even say it. “Other teams tried to handle it clean. By the book.”
I move closer, watching as she presses back into the chair. “But us? We’re not clean. We’re not by the book. We’re the ones they send when they need the monster under the bed.”
“Jinx...” There’s fear in her voice now. Finally.
“I killed them all. Slowly. Made them feel everything they’d done to those omegas.” The rage of that night burns through me again. “Ryker couldn’t stop me. Finn couldn’t talk me down. Even Theo...” I shake my head. “I came out of it covered in blood, surrounded by bodies, and I felt nothing. No regret. No remorse.”
“This is what you get, Red.” My voice drops low, dangerous. “A psychopath who loses control and leaves nothing but bodies in his wake. Still feel comfortable?”
Her heart is racing now, her pupils dilated. But she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to run.
“And the worst part?” I whisper, close enough to taste her fear-spiked scent. “The worst part is that sometimes I like it. Sometimes the violence feels better than control.”
I watch the fear bloom in her eyes, waiting for her to run. Wanting her to run. It’s what any sane person would do.
“Six alphas.” My voice drops lower, darker. “Ripped apart like they were nothing. You know what the official report said? Extreme prejudice. Like that somehow captures what happened. What I did.”
I can still feel it. The way the rage took over, painting everything red. The sounds of bones breaking, of screams cutting off. The complete loss of control that felt like freedom.
“When?” Her voice shakes, but there’s something else beneath the fear. Something like recognition dawning in those green eyes.
“Three months ago. Underground facility outside?—”
“Wait.” She sits forward suddenly, fear giving way to intensity. “Outside the city? Near the old industrial district?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. “How do you?—”
“Server room in the sub-basement.” Her words come faster now. “Security system running on outdated protocols. Hidden cameras in rooms labeled special merchandise. ”
The chair creaks as she stands, forcing me to step back. “Private auction site on the dark web. Bidding started at fifty thousand for—” Her voice breaks, rage replacing fear in her scent.
“You’re the one.” The realization crashes through me. “The anonymous tip. The data dump that exposed?—”
“Everything.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I found them. I saw what they were doing. What they—” She swallows hard. “Those omegas. Some of them were just kids.”
“You saw the footage.” It’s not a question. The horror in her eyes tells me everything.
“All of it. Every fucking second.” Her hand reaches out, touching my chest right above my heart. “And you didn’t kill them slowly enough.”
The touch burns through me, unexpected and electric. “You should be afraid of me.”
“You’re not a psychopath, Jinx.” Her voice is steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re a fucking hero. Those alphas? They were the monsters. The real ones. The ones who smiled while they—” She cuts herself off, fingers curling against my skin. “What you did? That wasn’t murder. It was justice.”
“You don’t understand. I liked it. The killing. The blood.”
“Good.” The word hits like a thunderclap. “Because I would have liked it too. Would have done it myself if I could have. But I’m just a beta with a keyboard.” Her eyes lock with mine, showing no fear now. Only fierce understanding. “So I found them. And you? You made them pay.”
Her words hit me like absolution I never knew I needed. The darkness in my head stutters, confronted with understanding where there should be fear.
“I dream about it sometimes,” she continues, her hand still pressed against my chest like an anchor. “What they did to those omegas. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after seeing those files. After tracking the money, the trading routes, the—” She draws in a shaky breath. “But then the whole operation went dark. Six alphas found dead, and suddenly every trafficking ring in three states started running scared.”
“Because of what I am.” The words taste like ash.
“Because of what you did.” She steps closer, and her lemon scent wraps around me, clean and sharp and honest. “You know what I see when I look at you?”
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Her presence fills all the broken spaces in my head.
“I see someone who does the things the rest of us can’t. Who carries the darkness so others don’t have to.” Her other hand comes up, framing my face. “You’re not broken, Jinx. You’re necessary.”
Something cracks in my chest. A dam breaking, flooding me with emotions I can’t name. No one’s ever looked at me like this. Like my darkness isn’t something to fix or fear, but something to understand. To accept.
“You should run.” The words come out rough, desperate. One last attempt to save her from myself.
“Funny.” Her thumb traces my cheekbone, and I lean into it like a starving man. “That’s what they told me about hacking those servers. About exposing the truth. Sometimes running isn’t the answer.”
“What is?”
Her lips curve into a smile that makes my heart stutter. “Standing your ground. Fighting back. Finding people who see your darkness and say me too. ”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly her lips are on mine, and it’s nothing like that first desperate encounter in the bathroom. This is slower, deeper. A recognition of shared shadows, of matching pieces we didn’t know were missing.
She tastes like understanding. Like acceptance. Like home.
When we break apart, her eyes are dark with something that isn’t fear at all. “Now,” she whispers against my lips, “want to tell me what this new job is?”
For the first time in days, the constant whispers in my mind still to a hush, the static between my thoughts clearing like fog burning away under morning sun.