1. Cayenne
Chapter 1
Cayenne
Consciousness returns like a corrupted file—fragmented, distorted, pieces missing where Alex’s pistol kissed my skull. The taste of blood lingers on my tongue, a familiar copper signature that speaks of failure.
The drip of water marks time in this concrete tomb, each splash a metronome counting down to something I don’t want to face. The sound bounces off stone walls, amplified by emptiness until it’s more percussion than liquid. Each drop hits the growing puddle with enough force to make me flinch, like a reminder of how spectacularly I’ve miscalculated.
I take inventory through the fog of what’s likely a concussion, categorizing my recent sins against self-preservation. The bruises from my parkour misadventures still paint my ribs in watercolor shades of regret, tender spots that protest with each shallow breath. My shoulder carries the signature of a bullet meant for someone else—the healing wound throbs in time with my heart, a morse code of consequences.
But those were calculated risks, weren’t they?
Clean code with clear objectives. This—breaking into Sterling Labs, facing down my own brother—this was pure chaos. The kind of reckless override that gets systems burned to ash.
The kind that gets people killed.
Time bleeds here, marked only by the rhythmic torture of that water drop and the hollow ache where pack bonds could be. The absence feels like missing lines of code, leaving my program incomplete. I never thought I’d miss them like missing limbs.
Ryker always pushing my buttons with his alpha commands. Jinx pushing them just to get in my pants. Theo’s snuggles that I’d trade a kidney for right now, even just an afternoon of movies and popcorn. And Finn, what I wouldn’t give for a game of chess that I’d surely lose.
My fingers twitch involuntarily, seeking warmth that isn’t there, bodies that protected me even when I pushed them away.
The cell itself is an exercise in minimalist horror—all brutal efficiency and psychological warfare. A military cot promises backaches and regret, its thin mattress carrying the sweat-stained history of previous occupants. A toilet offers all the dignity of a prison reality show.
And beyond the iron bars that separate me from freedom, eyes watch from the darkness. Not threatening, exactly. More like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.
I’ve tried engaging my mystery observer, but they maintain their silence.
The water hits my face again, cold enough to make me gasp. Code interrupted, system rebooting. I push myself up against the wall, letting the concrete leech what little warmth remains from my bones. My captors have left me here to marinate in my own filth—psychological warfare 101. Let the prisoner stew in uncertainty and fear before the real debugging begins.
The waiting is its own kind of torture.
My stomach has given up its angry growling and moved to silent protest, the kind of hollow emptiness that makes my vision swim when I turn my head too quickly. The last thing I ate was a protein bar in the car on the way to Sterling Labs.
The water drips—my own personal countdown timer. It’s brutally effective that way. I only drink when desperation drives me to lie beneath it, letting each drop hydrate me between bouts of unconsciousness. The water tastes metallic, carrying hints of rust and minerals that coat my tongue.
My bladder screams a desperate ping, but I hold out as long as I can. There’s something uniquely dehumanizing about performing basic functions for an unseen audience.
“You know,” I rasp, voice sandpaper-rough from disuse. My joints crack like stressed metal as I shift, each pop echoing in the damp air. “You could at least give me the courtesy of looking away while I pee.”
A shuffle in the darkness, like white noise in the system. Fabric rustling against stone. The almost imperceptible sound of someone holding their breath. I handle my business in the corner, preserving what fragments of dignity remain, before slumping back to the floor. The concrete is cold enough to burn, but I barely notice anymore. When I tip my head back to catch water drops, each feels like both salvation and submission.
“You’re welcome.” The voice that emerges from the shadows is distinctly feminine, carrying notes of boredom and world-weary cynicism that would make any therapist salivate. There’s a flatness to it, deliberate and practiced, like someone who’s learned emotions are best kept vacuum-sealed.
“Thank you?” I phrase it like a query seeking parameters, my heart rate picking up despite myself. Human contact after isolation hits like a drug, even from an unseen presence that could mean harm.
“I broke a pipe one floor up.” More movement, as though my observer wants to step into the light but can’t quite execute the command.
My eyes trace the industrial ceiling, following pipes and conduits that disappear into shadow, but the leak’s source remains encrypted. “No one noticed? It’s been days.”
“It’s been three days since you arrived, but only one day since Alexander’s first session with you.”
The words crash my mental processes, sending a wave of dizziness through me that has nothing to do with hunger or dehydration. Time down here doesn’t flow right. Like gravity’s off but for hours. I press my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. I’m clearly not built for this particular stress test.
“They haven’t even started yet,” she adds, inching closer to visibility.
“So you broke a pipe.” I focus on that bit of beautiful chaos rather than contemplate what yet implies, clinging to this scrap of conversation like a lifeline.
“They won’t notice for a few more days.” Her voice carries that special blend of boredom and menace that suggests she’s done this before. The words stretch and flatten, reminiscent of someone who finds humanity both exhausting and vaguely amusing. “When the water pressure bothers them enough.”
I snort despite myself, the sound turning into a pained cough that sends needles through my ribs. “Clever girl.”
“I like breaking things.”
Well, that’s not ominous at all.
“Don’t worry, I won’t break you.”
“Come into the light,” I urge, immediately feeling like every villain in every horror movie ever written. My fingers curl against the concrete, anticipation mingling with dread.
“Cameras.” One word, loaded with implications. Her shadow gestures upward, where the faint red light of a camera blinks like a mechanical eye.
“How unfortunate.” I try to match her deadpan delivery, though no one does dead inside quite like my mystery observer.
“I could take them out for you.”
The offer hangs in the air like an unexecuted command, vibrating with possibilities both threatening and liberating. Time to run a risky program. “Hi, I’m Cayenne Sterling.”
“Mona.” The name drops between us like a gauntlet. No last name offered, but none needed.
“Ah, so my sister.” I test the word like a bruise, probing for pain. “Where do I stand? Neutral territory? Do you hate me like Alexander? Like Roman?”
“I hate everyone equally.” More shuffling, and finally she edges into the dim light. Her outline emerges like a photograph developing—long dark hair, petite frame, features blurred by my concussion-addled vision. She moves with deliberate slowness, each step measured and precise, as though conserving energy for something more important than movement.
“Well, Mona-I-hate-everyone-equally. Same.” My stomach gnaws at itself, a rumble loud enough to echo, but I refuse to beg for food from my newly discovered sister.
“I could hate you less,” she muses, studying me with the detached interest of someone watching an animal in a zoo.
“What exactly are you doing down here?” I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t send pain shooting through some part of my body.
“Watching you.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see if you’d die.”
The words land like ice water down my spine, delivered with such casual indifference that I nearly laugh. My sister is disturbing. Fascinating, but disturbing.
“You didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Die.” She delivers this observation with the same enthusiasm most people reserve for discussing tax returns, though a slight tilt of her head suggests something almost like approval. “Most don’t make it this long.”
“That is...” I search for the right word through the fog of dehydration and fear, my mind stumbling over possibilities before settling on, “deeply unsettling.” My mind races through escape scenarios, each more impossible than the last.
“You can’t,” she says, reading my thoughts with unnerving accuracy. “Roman had the bars reinforced. You can’t even dig out—he has iron meshing under the ground.”
“Who the fuck does he keep in here?” The question slips past my self-preservation filter, carried on a wave of genuine curiosity that momentarily overrides my fear.
“His enemies.” The way she says it makes me think of nature documentaries about apex predators. Her lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of shared understanding. For a moment, something like animation flickers across her features before the flatness returns.
“So I’m enemy number one. Wonderful.” Though being Roman Sterling’s enemy is probably healthier than being his daughter. I run my tongue over cracked lips, tasting blood and exhaustion.
“He hates you.”
“Gathered that.” I’m surprised to find myself enjoying this twisted sisterly bonding. It’s like having a pen pal in purgatory. Her deadpan delivery and clinical observations carry a strange comfort—at least someone’s talking to me, even if it’s to inform me of my impending doom.
Don’t get used to it, warns the rational part of my brain. Shut up, says the part of me starved for connection.
“How old are you, Mona?”
“Does it matter?” A pause heavy with unspoken history, her fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against her thigh. “We are the same age, you know.”
My mother’s letter flashes through my mind—her description of a woman appearing with a baby when she discovered she was pregnant with me.
The realization hits like a system crash. Sisters. I stare at her face, hunting for resemblances like missing pieces of code. There—the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth when she’s suppressing something. The way her eyes narrow fractionally when processing. Even the tilt of her head as she watches me—all mirror images of habits I’ve caught in my own reflection.
“Alpha or omega?” I ask, though if she were a beta like me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She’d be in here with me instead of out there with freedom.
“Omega.” The word falls flat, stripped of society’s usual reverence. Her shoulders tense minutely, the only indication that the designation carries weight.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a twenty-nine-year-old omega with Roman Sterling as a father. I’m guessing you have a pack you didn’t sign up for.” I watch her carefully, looking for cracks in her facade, for hints of the person beneath the performance.
“I don’t.”
The surprise hits like a slap, jolting through my system and momentarily overriding my pain. “How is that possible?”
“I keep rejecting them,” she says in that same dead tone. A sigh escapes her, followed by the squeak of a chair and rolling sounds. And then there she is, fully visible at last.
Mona Sterling.
She’s nothing like I expected, yet exactly what I should have known she’d be. Beautiful in a haunted way, like a Gothic heroine who might also be a serial killer. Her fingers never stop moving—twisting a candy wrapper into increasingly complex patterns, the methodical precision at odds with her deliberately blank expression. She has our father’s eyes, but where his calculate, hers dissect.
Long dark hair falls past her shoulders, brown but almost black in the dim light, straight and shining despite the damp surroundings. Her dark eyes hold the kind of emptiness that comes from seeing too much—wells of shadow that reflect nothing back. She’s wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and an oversized sweater—an outfit that should look casual but somehow makes her seem more dangerous, like a weapon disguised as something ordinary.
“You reject packs? Without Roman punishing you?” The question comes out incredulous.
“I’m a daddy’s girl.” The words drip with something darker than venom, though her expression remains unchanged. The juxtaposition between her words and her flat affect creates a dissonance that’s deeply unsettling.
“That disturbs me.” A laugh bubbles up despite everything, painful against my dry throat. “I am clearly not.”
“Clearly.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
She just blinks at me, her stare reminiscent of a cat deciding whether to play with its food. The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before she gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“How are you a daddy’s girl?”
The sigh she lets out is an art form—part annoyance, part dramatic flair, all barely concealed trauma. Her shoulders rise and fall in exaggerated motion, the most emotion she’s shown yet. “I know my father is a terrible man. The packs he chooses are like him. I don’t want that. So for ten years I’ve done nothing but ruin them.”
“That doesn’t explain how you’re daddy’s girl.” I shift forward, wincing as dried blood pulls at my skin where it’s adhered to my shirt.
“I know.” The blandness of her tone suggests both boredom and warning. Like everything about Mona, there are layers here. She might be daddy’s girl now, but the haunted edges around her eyes tell a different story about before. About what it took to carve out even this small freedom.
“Tell me how.”
“How what?”
“How you ruin them.” I shift against the cold wall, finding a slightly less uncomfortable position. My fascination momentarily outweighs my discomfort. “I’m bored and I love stories.”
She grips her seat, knuckles whitening, a disturbing smirk playing across her features. Oh yes, I definitely like my sister. There’s something deliciously unhinged about her, like a bomb wrapped in silk. For the first time, animation creeps into her voice, a spark of genuine feeling breaking through her monotone.
“There was this one pack daddy picked.” The way she says daddy should disturb me more than it does, the word laced with mockery rather than affection. “Diplomats from South America.” Her smirk grows, taking on an edge of pride. “I went to live with them for a week to let them court me. I stole a quarter million and a Mercedes. Crashed it into a tree and got lost in a jungle for a week before they found me.”
The laugh that escapes me hurts my ribs, but I can’t contain it. “You’re absolutely insane.”
“I can tell you more.” The excitement in her voice carries notes of something darker—like she’s never had anyone to share these stories with before. Never had anyone who might understand the beauty of her chaos. Her body language shifts subtly, leaning forward, hands gesturing in small, precise movements that belie her deadpan delivery.
“Tell me everything.” I mirror her posture despite my pain, drawn into her orbit by the gravitational pull of shared rebellion.
“Daddy throws these omega balls. They’re for me, but I hate them.” Her nose wrinkles slightly, the first truly natural expression I’ve seen on her face.
“Ah yes, you hate everyone.”
“You’re catching on.” That disturbing smirk again, like we’re sharing secrets at a slumber party in hell. “Too many alphas and omegas. No betas allowed except in the kitchen. The last one, he set me up with this pack. I lured them into the maze and left them there. I know the way out, of course, but I didn’t leave. I stayed hidden, listening to their cries.”
“A morbid feminist. I like it.” My smile feels sharp enough to cut, a perfect match to hers. There’s something intoxicating about finding someone who understands the dark satisfaction of creating chaos in systems designed to contain you.
“I like the sound of men crying.”
Oh yeah, she is so traumatized. But who wouldn’t be, growing up as Sterling’s omega daughter?
In the distance, a heavy door groans open, the sound echoing through stone corridors like a death knell. Metal scrapes against metal, followed by the measured cadence of approaching footsteps. My heart rate spikes, fight-or-flight instincts screaming through my exhausted body.
Mona’s posture changes instantly, animation draining away like water down a drain. “I have to go.” This sigh is different—genuine regret, as though she’s actually enjoyed our twisted bonding session. She stands abruptly, chair legs scraping against concrete.
“Pity. We were just getting to know each other.” I’m surprised by how much I mean it. For all her disturbing edges, there’s something compelling about Mona—a kindred spirit forged in the same toxic crucible.
“Is it true you don’t feel pain?” The words rush out, urgent now. For the first time, concern flickers across her features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“Excuse me?”
“You have red hair. It’s natural, right?” Her eyes focus on my tangled locks, currently matted with blood and sweat. “Redheads don’t feel pain.”
“Yes...” I draw out the word, suddenly unsure which question I’m actually answering. Cold understanding creeps through me, a new kind of dread that has nothing to do with hunger or isolation.
“Daddy is going to test that theory.” She stands, looking down at me with dead eyes that hold something almost like concern. “Don’t die.”
“I will do my very best.” But I make no promises because my heart is already seizing around the unspoken word hovering between us.
Torture.
The footsteps grow louder, echoing off stone walls like drumbeats. As Mona melts back into shadows, my heart hammers so hard I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, my eardrums, the tender spot at my temple where Alexander’s gun left its mark.
But beneath the fear, something else burns—the same electric focus that used to keep me coding for forty-eight hours straight. Mona’s given me more than water and conversation, she’s given me intelligence about Sterling’s methods, about his obsessions, about possible weaknesses. My sister may be broken, but she’s transformed every jagged piece into a blade. And I’m about to do the same with every scrap of information she’s let slip.
And something tells me I’m going to need all the weapons I can get.
The door slams shut, the sound reverberating through my bones, leaving me alone with the drip of water and the growing certainty that whatever comes next will test exactly how far a beta can bend before breaking.
Game on, daddy dearest. Game fucking on.