2. Cayenne
Chapter 2
Cayenne
Mona’s absence leaves a void filled only by the steady drip of water and my thundering pulse. I count seconds like computer code—each digit a futile attempt to measure the time between now and whatever comes next.
Another door creaks open somewhere in the labyrinth beyond my prison, the sound echoing through concrete corridors. I should have asked Mona more questions—about escape routes, about the facility’s layout, about how she moves through these shadows like a ghost. But something tells me I’ll get another chance.
Just not right now.
Footsteps approach, each click against concrete sending ice through my veins. Clipped. Uniform. Consistent. Military precision in every step. My body recognizes the threat before my mind processes it—muscle memory from a lifetime of fighting or fleeing.
When Alexander Sterling steps into view, something uncoils inside me like a serpent waking. He’s beautiful in the way apex predators are beautiful—all sleek danger and lethal grace. We share the same green eyes, but where mine hold fire, his are frozen lakes hiding drowning depths. Looking at him is like seeing a mirror image twisted by darkness, every familiar feature rendered wrong by the void behind them.
His scent hits me next—clean and sharp like winter air, but wrong somehow. Empty. Where most alphas’ scents carry emotional markers, his carries nothing but cold precision. No rage, no excitement, no anticipation—just the clinical absence of feeling that makes him infinitely more terrifying.
Sadness hits unexpectedly.
Where Mona’s damage created calculated chaos—a weapon forged from her cage—Alexander radiates pure sociopathy. There’s nothing left to save in those eyes. No warmth. No humanity. Just cold calculation and the promise of violence.
“Brother.” I inject false cheer into the greeting, armor against his winter-cold stare. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Get up.” He crosses his arms, black fatigues emphasizing the coiled strength in his frame. His stance suggests he’s ready for me to attack, though we both know I’m smart enough not to try.
Not yet.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist.” I force myself to stand on shaky legs, mirroring his posture despite the way my muscles scream in protest. The concrete floor has left me stiff, each movement taking far more energy than necessary.
“No funny business.” He tilts his head, studying me like a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen. “Or try. I don’t care.”
The casual menace in his tone makes it clear he’s hoping I’ll give him an excuse. I’ve never been one to give men what they want.
He unlocks the door, the metal groaning like something dying. When he steps back, suspicion crawls up my spine like spider legs.
“Is this a trick?” The question escapes before I can stop it, fear making me honest.
“Go.” He points down the corridor, darkness yawning beyond the dim lights.
“Not a talker?” Unlike Mona, but I keep that observation locked behind my teeth. Whatever game my sister is playing, I won’t be the one to expose her hand.
“Go.” The baton jabs my shoulder, cold metal through thin fabric serving as a pointed reminder of who holds the power here.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Every survival instinct screams as I step in front of him. Having him at my back feels like inviting a knife between my ribs, but I force my chin up and my steps steady. His gaze burns between my shoulder blades, making my skin crawl with anticipation of the blow I know is coming.
The overhead fluorescents flicker and buzz, casting unstable shadows that dance along grimy walls. My eyes dart around, cataloging details. One camera near the exit, its red light a baleful eye watching our progression. No other visible surveillance, which sets off warning bells.
A facility this secure should have better coverage unless?—
The baton cracks against the back of my legs with surgical precision. My knees buckle and I slam forward, barely getting my palms up in time to catch myself. Concrete bites into my skin as the impact jars through my arms and into my teeth.
“Get up.” His boot finds my calf, preventing me from rising even as he demands it. The casual cruelty of it—the game of it—makes bile rise in my throat.
Blood fills my mouth, copper-sharp and nauseating, as I dig deep for that hidden reservoir of fuck-you strength that’s kept me alive this long. I push to my feet, teeth grinding against the pain. Each step toward the door feels like walking through quicksand, my muscles tensed for the next attack.
He waits until we clear the threshold before knocking me down again.
“What is your problem?” I spin to face him, the sterile white hallway spinning with me. The fluorescent lights here are steady, unforgiving in their brightness. No shadows to hide in, nowhere to run.
“No problem.” He spits at my feet, the gesture calculated to degrade.
I cross my arms, planting my feet. If this sadistic bastard wants me to move, he’ll have to work for it.
“Walk.” The command comes out in a growl before his lips twist into something cruel. “Walk,” he repeats, infusing the word with alpha command.
Every muscle in my body vibrates with the command, but I hold my ground. A small, vicious smile plays at my lips as his power slides off me like water. That’s the thing about being a beta—we might not have fancy designations or biological imperatives, but we also don’t have to bow to anyone’s authority but our own.
“Walk, bitch.” He gets in my face, flooding the command with enough power to make the air crackle.
“Fuck. You.” I grind each word out like broken glass.
The backhand isn’t surprising, but it still rocks my head back. Stars explode behind my eyes as copper floods my mouth again.
“Alexander.” A new voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, cultured tones carrying notes of disappointment. “Cayenne.”
My body hums with fresh tension as I adjust my stance to keep both men in view. There at the end of the sterile corridor stands Roman Sterling, flanked by two stone-faced guards. He radiates alpha confidence like a poison, every inch of him engineered to command respect. Dark hair perfectly styled, patrician features arranged in an expression of mild interest, and those familiar eyes—my eyes—studying me like I’m a particularly complex equation he’s trying to solve.
“Father.” I load the word with all the venom I can muster, satisfaction flaring at the tiny tick in his expression.
Alexander’s grip bruises my bicep as he drags me toward an open door. The room beyond hits me like a punch to the gut—antiseptic white and gleaming steel, medical precision twisted into something nightmarish. Not quite a doctor’s office, not quite a lab, but somehow worse than either.
One wall holds observation windows, and that’s where Roman positions himself with his sentinels, looking down at me like a king surveying his domain. I press myself into a corner as Alexander exits, the lock engaging with a fatal-sounding click.
“What the fuck is this?” Fear creeps into my voice despite my best efforts to cage it.
Roman’s finger hovers over an intercom button. “Checking for omega latency.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Rage burns through my veins as a fine mist begins to spray from overhead vents. The droplets catch light like diamonds, beautiful and deadly.
Is that what this is about? Testing if I might have some hidden omega potential beneath my beta markers? The very idea is absurd—designations are fixed at birth.
Or at least, that’s what everyone believes.
“No.” His voice carries the same detachment he might use to discuss the weather. “I’d like to know if you’re worth saving.”
In that moment, watching him watch me through bullet-proof glass, I make a promise to myself. I will kill this man. Not quickly, not cleanly, but with the same methodical precision he’s using to destroy me.
I inhale deliberately, letting the mist coat my lungs. Then I step forward and spit on the window, marking the barrier between us.
He just blinks, unmoved by my defiance.
“Now what?” I spin in a slow circle, arms spread wide. “No omega presentation. Shocking.”
“Pity.” The word falls like a death sentence.
“Won’t it take time, father?” Alexander’s eagerness bleeds through the intercom.
“No.” Roman shakes his head, clinical disappointment evident in every line of his face. “She’d perfume almost instantly. My formula is perfect.”
I hop onto the exam table, letting my feet swing like a child at the doctor’s office. The metal bleeds cold through my clothes as I watch them through the glass, wondering which kind of monster I’ll face next.
“Now what?” Alexander asks, and the hunger in his voice makes my skin crawl.
“I had hoped I could use her as an omega.” Roman’s tone suggests he’s already moving to the next item on his checklist.
“We can kill her.” The eager way Alexander offers this solution tells me exactly where I rank in his worldview.
“No.” Roman’s response carries no mercy, just calculation. “See what she’s made of. Break her.”
Ice floods my veins as warning bells scream in my head.
“Gladly.” Alexander moves toward the door like a predator scenting blood.
Roman’s hand lands on Alexander’s shoulder, the gesture almost paternal. “Don’t kill her. We need her mind strong.” His gaze fixes on me through the glass, clinical and cold. “Break her and rebuild her. Strengthen her.”
“What the hell does that mean?” My voice comes out higher than intended, fear finally cracking through my armor.
“You want to live?” Roman asks, as though offering a choice that isn’t really a choice at all.
“Obviously.” The word snaps out of me, sharp with false bravado.
“Then live.” He turns and walks away, each step measured and unhurried. He doesn’t need to rush—he knows exactly what’s about to happen.
The door opens with a hiss, and Alexander’s smile holds nothing but promises of pain.
“No.” I raise my hand like setting boundaries with a rabid dog might actually work. “Just... no.”
“Go.” He steps aside, giving me a clear path to the door.
“What?”
“Go.” The word carries dark amusement now.
Fear coats my tongue, metallic and sharp. “No.”
The gun appears in his hand like a magic trick, black metal gleaming under fluorescent lights. “Go.”
“Or you’ll shoot me again?” My fingers brush the tender spot where he pistol-whipped me, the memory pulsing with fresh pain.
“I pistol whipped you.” He corrects me like we’re having a normal sibling disagreement about remembered events.
“Well, it still fucking hurt.”
His smile grows teeth. “Run, little red. Run.”
“No.” The word comes out stronger than I feel.
The gunshot cracks through the small room like thunder, the sound bouncing off sterile walls until my ears ring with it. The bullet embeds itself in the wall beside my head, close enough that I feel its passage ruffle my hair.
Message received.
I bolt past him into the corridor, my bare feet slapping against cold concrete as I run without direction or purpose. Each door I pass looks identical to the last, the hallways a maze designed to disorient. My lungs burn as I burst through another set of doors into what seems like an underground garage, but wrong—a liminal space of concrete pillars and empty vastness, like someone forgot to add the cars to this level of the video game.
Perfect. In the way that absolutely nothing about this is perfect.
I duck behind a pillar, trying to control my breathing as Alexander’s footsteps echo through the space. The sound bounces off concrete walls, making it impossible to pinpoint his location.
“Oh no, little red, where oh where have you gone?” His voice carries the same sing-song quality a child might use playing hide and seek, if that child was planning murder.
I force my breaths to slow, pressing my back against the cold concrete. For a moment, unbidden, I wonder if Theo’s pre-heat symptoms have progressed. He’d been fighting it for days, wanting to wait for me. The thought of missing something so important, of leaving them when they needed me most, burns almost as badly as Alexander’s knife. The urge to snark back nearly overwhelms me, but for once in my life, I keep my mouth shut.
I don’t know the layout, don’t have a weapon, don’t have a plan. All I have is me, myself, and the growing certainty that my brother intends to paint this garage with my blood.
For a brief, mad moment, I think of Ryker. He’s going to be so pissed about this—assuming I live long enough for him to be pissed at all. And Finn would be cataloging every detail of this place, building mental maps and calculating odds. Theo would... no, I can’t think about Theo right now. The thought of his warmth in this cold place might break me.
Don’t think about them. Not yet.
Alexander’s footsteps draw closer, each click of his boots against concrete a countdown to violence. Fight or flight spins in my head like a broken compass, neither option promising survival. But if I’m going to have any chance of exploring this facility later, I need to prove I can handle whatever he dishes out.
I crouch lower, muscle memory from Ryker’s training taking over as I time my breathing to Alexander’s steps. As he passes my pillar, I slowly edge around it, keeping to his blind spot. Thank fuck he put the gun away—at least this will be an almost fair fight.
Yeah, right. Like anything about this family is fair.
Time slows as I launch my attack, mind calculating trajectories like I’m hacking a particularly tricky system. In my head, it’s perfect—use the pillar as a springboard, channel all that parkour training Jinx gave me, catch Alexander with a kick to the head. One clean shot. That’s all I need.
Reality, as usual, has other plans.
He catches my leg mid-air like he’s been waiting for exactly this move. My back hits the concrete with bone-crushing force, driving every molecule of air from my lungs. Stars explode behind my eyes as my skull bounces off the floor.
“That was a...” Alexander pauses, like he’s searching for the right word, “try.”
He drops my legs with casual disdain. I roll to my side, gagging as my body fights to remember how breathing works. Each desperate inhale feels like swallowing broken glass.
“Try again.” His boot connects with my ribs, the impact precise enough to hurt like hell without breaking anything. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.
Fuck this guy.
I scramble to my feet, rage overwhelming reason as I charge him. My fists might as well be hitting a brick wall for all the damage they do. He dodges my wild swings with almost bored efficiency, his laughter echoing off concrete walls until it sounds like a crowd of Alexanders mocking my efforts.
Finally, one punch connects—a solid hit to his jaw that sends satisfaction singing through my veins. The victory lasts approximately half a second before his fist finds my face with surgical precision. My head snaps back as copper floods my mouth, the world tilting sideways as I hit the ground again.
I cradle my throbbing jaw, blinking back tears of pain and frustration. I hate him. God, I hate him so much it burns in my chest like acid.
Alexander crouches before me, all predatory grace and cold amusement. “I’m not supposed to kill you.” The knife appears in his hand, blade catching fluorescent light. “But I know exactly how to walk that line.”
Real fear—the kind that turns your bones to water—floods my system.
I’d thought the gun was scary, thought the beating was bad, but the casual way he holds that blade tells me I haven’t seen anything yet. This isn’t just violence. This is art to him. And I’m about to become his canvas.
I scramble backward, concrete scraping my palms raw. But he advances with machine-like relentlessness, each step measured and inevitable. His smile grows as my back hits a pillar, trapping me between concrete and steel.
The blade moves like quicksilver, too fast to track. I throw my arms up, defensive training kicking in even as panic screams through my veins. Each block earns me a new cut—shallow slices that burn like fire across my skin. He’s playing with me, I realize. Drawing designs in my flesh like a child with a new box of crayons.
His laughter bounces off the walls, a soundtrack to my gasping breaths and the wet sound of blade parting skin. Then, without warning, the knife plunges into my stomach.
Everything stops.
He fucking stabbed me. He actually fucking stabbed me.
Alexander leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “All betas should be eradicated from earth.” His words drip with zealot’s conviction. “You’re lucky you’re smart, according to father. Otherwise this would be a death blow.”
He yanks the knife out with a twist, and fresh agony blazes through me. I slap my hand over the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers.
“You aren’t supposed to pull the knife out,” I gasp, because apparently my mouth still works even when my survival instinct doesn’t.
“I didn’t hit anything major.” He steps back, admiring his work like an artist critiquing a canvas. “You’ll learn where the vitals are.”
Then, with deliberate eye contact, he raises the blade to his lips and licks my blood from the steel.
“What the fuck.” Horror propels me backward, my shoulder blades scraping concrete as I try to put distance between us. The movement sends fresh fire through my stomach wound.
“Don’t move.”
The knife leaves his hand in a silver arc. Every instinct screams to dodge, but some primitive part of my brain—the part that recognizes apex predators—knows that movement means death. Instead, I freeze as the blade finds its home in my previously wounded shoulder, right where the bullet hole was still healing.
My scream echoes off concrete walls, bouncing back at me in a chorus of my own agony. The sound follows me down as my legs give out, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision.
The last thing I see is Alexander’s satisfied smile, blood—my blood—still staining his teeth.
For the first time in my life, I let unconsciousness take me.
But even as I fall into darkness, one thought burns bright.
I’m going to kill him.
Not for the torture, not for the pain, but for showing me exactly what kind of monster shares my blood.
Family is supposed to be about love and protection. The Sterlings? We’re about precision and pain, about finding exactly where to slip the knife to make it hurt the most.
When I get out of here—and I will get out—Alexander Sterling will learn why it’s the quiet ones you should fear the most.