1. Cayenne
Chapter 1
Cayenne
The Ducati screams beneath me, engine roaring as I push past eighty, then ninety. My hands are sticky with blood—mostly Mona’s, seeping through the makeshift bandage around her bicep. The wind strips away the copper smell, but nothing can erase the image of Alexander’s face when he realized I was choosing Mona over the pack.
Not choosing , I correct myself. Strategizing . There’s a difference between abandonment and necessity.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“Turn here!” Mona shouts against my shoulder, her voice barely audible over the engine and wind.
I lean into the curve, tires protesting as we leave the highway for a secondary road that winds through dense forest. My muscles remember this—Jinx’s parkour lessons translating to motorcycle control like they’ve always been there. The bike responds to my body the way code responds to precise commands.
A twinge in my side reminds me the virus touched me too—less than Finn, but enough. My scent’s shifted—citrus layered with something warmer. Not quite beta. Not quite omega. My nerves spark like a system glitch.
Mona’s grip around my waist has been steadily weakening, her fingers no longer digging into my ribs. We need to stop soon, but every second we’re exposed is another opportunity for Sterling’s goons to find us.
“Two more miles,” Mona directs, her usual manic energy subdued by blood loss and exhaustion. “Small motel. Left side. Very inconspicuous. Much discretion.”
The pack bond pulses beneath my sternum like a second heartbeat, stretched thin but unbroken. Finn’s presence feels fainter with each mile—a failing connection I’m terrified to lose. The booster medication in my pocket weighs nothing physically but everything emotionally.
The motel Mona directs me to is barely deserving of the name—a horseshoe-shaped relic from the 1950s with a flickering neon sign missing half its letters. VACA CY blinks in uneven rhythm, casting alternating shadows across Mona’s too-pale face.
“Here?” I kill the engine in the shadow of a vending machine. “This place looks like it rents rooms by the hour.”
“Exactly. High turnover. Cash only. No security.” Mona slides off the bike, wincing as the movement pulls at the bandage around her arm. Blood seeps through, creating a spreading crimson stain. “Also, we need to test something.”
My instincts immediately catalog the perimeter—two exit routes, minimal surveillance, vehicles in the lot that haven’t moved in days based on the dust patterns. My eyes track sight lines and camera angles while my nose analyzes for threats—an automatic security sweep that Ryker drilled into me during endless training sessions.
“Test what?” I help her stay upright, noticing how her usually precise movements have deteriorated to something almost human. “Mona, we need to get to the secondary extraction point. The pack?—”
“If I’m right, they’ll come for us,” she interrupts, eyes scanning the perimeter with sharp calculation rather than her usual chaotic energy. “Just us. Not the pack.”
“Alexander,” I realize, the name bitter on my tongue. My hand instinctively moves to the graze on my arm where his bullet passed through—a fraction of an inch difference and neither of us would be standing here. Yet I can’t shake the memory of his expression when I jumped in front of Mona. Not just surprise, but something else—a fragment of hesitation where none should exist.
“You think he’s tracking us specifically.”
“Obviously.” She starts toward the office, her gait uneven. “Familial genetic markers create distinctive tracking patterns.”
The vacancy sign casts sickly red light across her face, transforming her usual pallor into something almost ghostly. For a moment, I see what Alexander must see—another Sterling, brilliant and dangerous, but one who chose to fight rather than obey.
Just like me.
I support Mona to the front office, where a clerk with dead eyes barely glances up from his ancient TV. The flickering blue light hits nicotine-stained fingers as he flips a magazine.
“Room at the back,” I tell him, sliding cash across the counter. “Under the name Garcia.”
“Johnson,” Mona adds immediately. “Very unrelated. Much separate reservation.”
The clerk doesn’t even blink, just hands over two keys with peeling number stickers. I catch Mona’s eye, and for once, we’re thinking exactly the same thing: this guy has seen worse than two bloodstained women paying cash at 3 AM.
The air smells of pine and coming rain—a jarring contrast to blood and gunpowder. I search for pack scent, but there’s only absence. My body responds with a subtle drop in temperature—another trait I shouldn’t have.
“Check the room before entering,” Mona directs, leaning against the rusted railing. “Standard protocol.”
I sweep the room—vents, light fixtures, under the bed. Habit. Instinct. Nothing hidden here but peeling wallpaper and a bed that gave up in the ‘90s.
“Clear,” I announce, helping her to the bathroom. “Let me see your arm.”
Under the harsh fluorescent light, Mona looks younger somehow, vulnerability peeking through the cracks in her carefully constructed mask of chaos. I ease her onto the closed toilet lid and help her remove her jacket, revealing the blood-soaked bandage beneath.
“The bullet failed to hit any major arteries,” she observes clinically as I peel away the makeshift covering. “Approximately fourteen stitches required. Very inconvenient timing.”
The wound looks worse than I expected—a deep furrow carved through her bicep, edges ragged and still seeping blood with every beat of her heart. Alexander’s parting gift. Another family bonding experience written in Sterling blood.
His face flashes before me again—not as he fired, but the moment before. That split-second when his finger hesitated on the trigger. When his eyes met mine over the barrel of his gun, something flickering there that didn’t belong in Roman’s perfect weapon.
“This needs a hospital,” I mutter, digging through my pack for the emergency medical kit Finn insisted we all carry. The thought of him sends another pulse of pain through the stretched-thin pack bond. I flinch visibly as the connection flares, a physical reaction to the emotional tie—a biological reality I’m still adapting to.
“High praise,” I say dryly, threading the curved needle from the kit. “This is going to hurt.”
“Pain is irrelevant,” she responds automatically, but when the needle first pierces skin, she makes a small sound that’s painfully human. “Slightly more relevant than anticipated.”
I place the first few stitches carefully, trying to minimize her discomfort. The precision required reminds me of circuit board repair—each stitch a connection in a larger system. “So, how many packs has Roman tried to set you up with?”
Mona’s laugh is surprisingly normal—no clinical assessment, no mathematical probability. “Seventeen. All failures. Some more spectacular than others.”
“Tell me about the worst one,” I encourage, continuing to work. Distraction is the best anesthetic we have.
“Dubai alpha with germaphobia issues.” Her smile turns almost mischievous. “I cultivated rare fungal cultures in his private bathroom for three days before the symptoms appeared. Pack betrothal terminated within twenty-four hours.”
I laugh, the sound strange in this dingy bathroom where we’re both bleeding and hunted. “That’s both brilliant and terrifying.”
“What is it like?” she asks suddenly, her voice softer. “Having a real pack? People who... choose you?”
The question catches me off guard with its simple honesty. I pause my stitching, considering. The pack bond pulses with each heartbeat, four distinct threads connecting to something vital inside me. My body temperature spikes at the simple thought of them, skin flushing with a warmth that radiates from within—another omega-like response that my beta body shouldn’t be capable of.
“It’s terrifying,” I admit. “Having people who see all your broken pieces and stay anyway. It’s like having a safety net you never asked for but suddenly can’t imagine living without.”
Mona absorbs this, her usual rapid-fire analysis temporarily silenced. “And the claiming? The physical bonds?”
“That part’s...” Heat rises to my cheeks, remembering Jinx’s mouth on my neck, Theo’s fingers tracing my spine, Ryker’s hands holding me still, Finn taking me apart one touch at a time. My pupils dilate involuntarily, another physiological response that feels foreign in my changing body. “Intense. But good-intense. Like finding pieces of yourself you never knew were missing.”
She nods, processing. “I’ve catalogued pack bonding extensively from observational data, but the experiential component remains elusive.”
“You never wanted a pack of your own?” I ask gently, securing another stitch.
For a moment, her facade cracks completely. “Wanting was irrelevant. Daddy’s perfect omega experiment had purpose, not desire.” She meets my eyes, something raw and genuine showing through. “Until recently.”
I finish the last stitch—fourteen exactly—and dress the wound. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’d make a terrifying but oddly effective pack member. Any alpha pack would be lucky to have you.”
“Highest compliment,” she says, a genuine smile briefly illuminating her face before her clinical mask slides back into place. “Your needlework shows unexpected precision. Effectiveness probability approximately eighty-seven percent.”
“Thanks for the performance review.” I clean the graze—shallow, but close. The sting keeps me grounded, even as my mind drifts to Finn. “Now tell me why we’re here instead of rendezvousing with my pack.”
Mona moves to the window, carefully arranging candy wrappers along the sill. I recognize the pattern—a low-tech but effective motion detection system. Classic Mona, using sugar as security.
“Cough drop?” she asks, placing three more in strategic locations near the door.
“Mona,” I press, the weight of Finn’s deteriorating condition pressing down on me like a physical force. Every second we delay is another second his body fights alone.
“We’re bait,” she says simply, finally addressing my question. “If my calculations are correct, Alexander is tracking us through our genetic signature. A technique I may have helped perfect before realizing daddy’s ultimate application.”
“You’re saying they can find us no matter where we go?” The implications send ice through my veins. I’m suddenly aware of every genetic marker in my body, imagining them betraying me like corrupted code, broadcasting my location to predators.
“Not precisely. The tracking requires close proximity initially. Once detected, the signature creates a distinct pattern that can be followed.” She places the last cough drop against the door. “Like bloodhounds, but with science.”
“So Sterling can track his bloodline? Anyone with his DNA?” The thought makes my skin crawl, imagining invisible threads connecting us to him no matter how far we run.
“He needed baseline samples first—blood, tissue, something with active cellular material,” Mona explains, tapping her fingers in precise sequence. “Once catalogued, the tracking program identifies specific genetic markers unique to Sterling bloodline. Quantum-level recognition patterns. Very sophisticated. Much disturbing implications.”
The fuck?
“Your infiltration of Sterling Labs finally gave him the sample he needed,” she adds, her fingers still tapping that precise rhythm. “The moment you bled on his pristine floors, you became trackable. Your DNA had eluded him until now, despite his years tracking mine.”
I sink onto the bed, processing this new information. “So we’re deliberately letting them find us. Away from the pack. Away from Finn who needs that booster you’re carrying.”
“Correct.” She touches the secure case containing Finn’s medication, her fingers lingering over the clasp. “If Alexander is using genetic tracking, he will follow us, not the pack. We draw him away, confirm the tracking method, then eliminate the threat.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Statistically improbable. But if incorrect, we proceed to secondary extraction at dawn.” Her eyes meet mine, calculation giving way to something surprisingly gentle. “Your friend has approximately twenty-seven hours before viral progression becomes irreversible.”
It’s 4:17 AM. I should sleep, but adrenaline hums through my system. The pack bond stretches thin, Finn’s presence flickering like a low signal. My bones ache from the distance—another change I never expected.
“Did you ever wish for siblings?” The question slips out before I can censor it, born of exhaustion and the strange intimacy of this filthy motel room where we’ve patched each other’s wounds.
Mona pauses her surveillance arrangement, head tilting like a bird considering an unusual insect. “Siblings were not variables I had permission to consider.”
“But did you want them?” I press. “Before you knew I existed. Before Alexander became... whatever he is now.”
The memory of his face flashes through my mind—not the cold killer who shot at us, but the fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. That momentary hesitation. The almost imperceptible widening of his eyes when I chose Mona over the case.
Mona sits beside me on the bed, careful to maintain space between us. “I used to catalog potential siblings based on scientific compatibility.” A small smile plays at her lips. “You exceeded parameters.”
“Is that Mona for you’re not the worst sister I could have had?”
“It’s Mona for you present uncommon alliance potential despite suboptimal designation.” Her smile widens fractionally. “But the emotional translation is also accurate.”
I laugh despite everything—the pain, the fear, the knowledge that we’re deliberately making ourselves targets. “How did you turn out so different from him? From our father?”
“Choice,” she says immediately. “Biology is circumstance. Designation is assignment. Choice is everything.”
She returns to the window, fingers automatically arranging and rearranging cough drops into patterns only she understands. “I chose chaos as camouflage. Alexander chose obedience as armor. You chose freedom as identity.”
“You think he had a choice?” I ask, remembering the split-second hesitation in his trigger finger, I just can’t get that moment out of my head.
Mona’s hands go still, candy forgotten. “Alexander had more choices than any of us. He was daddy’s perfect alpha prototype—everything I wasn’t.” Her voice drops to something barely audible. “But sometimes, when daddy wasn’t watching, he’d warn me which labs to avoid. Which scientists had been... reprimanded.”
The revelation lodges beneath my ribs, complicating the neat categories of ally and enemy I’ve tried to construct. “You think there’s still something of that boy left in him?”
“Probability indeterminate,” she says, but something in her tone suggests she’s calculated this equation many times. “He’s been broken and remade too many times to predict.”
The stinging in my arm where his bullet grazed me argues against hope. But the pack has taught me that people are rarely just one thing. Even monsters can choose differently, given the right variables.
“And Finn? The pack?” I ask quietly, the ache of separation throbbing beneath my sternum, an empty port missing its connections. As I speak their names, my scent shifts subtly—a physiological response to emotional stimuli that feels foreign in my changing body. Another sign of my designation in flux.
“They chose you,” she responds, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Very statistically improbable. Much fortunate outcome.”
We fall into silence—Mona monitoring the lot, me checking weapons. The booster for Finn sits secure, a vial that might decide if he lives or dies. I wonder if we made the right call—leaving him when he needs us most.
My hand drifts to my neck, finding the place where Jinx marked me. The claiming bite has fully healed, but something about it still feels unfinished—a program waiting for the final lines of code, a circuit missing its connecting wire. My skin heats beneath my fingertips, a physical memory of belonging that makes me acutely aware of my isolated state.
And I’m pretty sure I know exactly what pieces are missing.