4. Cayenne
Chapter 4
Cayenne
Consciousness returns like a bad hangover, every nerve ending screaming as my eyes flutter open to find Mona’s face inches from mine, her dark eyes studying me with all the warmth of a taxonomist examining a particularly disappointing beetle.
“You didn’t die.” She tilts her head. “Impressive. Boring, but impressive.”
I try to move and immediately regret it. The stab wound in my stomach throbs with every heartbeat, and Alexander’s additional artwork has painted me in watercolor bruises from neck to ankles. My shoulder—the one he used for target practice—feels like it’s on fire.
I catalog the injuries methodically. Two knife wounds, multiple lacerations, probable concussion, dehydration, and enough bruises to look like modern art. None immediately fatal, all precisely calculated to maximize pain while minimizing damage.
Alexander is nothing if not thorough.
“Here,” Mona says, pulling a syringe from her oversized sweater like she’s a street magician with boundary issues. “Daddy keeps these for the alphas, but he won’t miss one. Or ten.”
I eye the needle. “Is that... adrenaline?”
“Better. Nanite repair agents wrapped in a protein binder. Technically illegal. Completely fun.”
“Will it work?”
“Probably. It works on rats. And you’ve got a lot of rat in you. Scrappy. Stubborn. Unkillable.”
She jabs the needle into my thigh with all the grace of a toddler on espresso. Pain blooms like fireworks—then recedes fast. Too fast.
Heat floods my system. Not heat-heat. Just... functional tissue stitching itself back together like someone hit CTRL+Z on my trauma.
“What are you doing?” I manage through cracked lips.
“Watching you bleed.” She pops a bubble with the gum she’s chewing, the sound echoing in my concrete cage. “You do it interestingly.”
That’s when I notice the surveillance camera above us is covered in what appears to be multiple wads of pink bubblegum. The speaker in the corner drips with... is that whipped cream?
“Did you...” I squint through the pain, “disable our surveillance with snack food?”
“I got bored.” She shrugs, the gesture somehow both elegant and deeply unsettling. “And hungry. The whipped cream was just there. Like, literally just there. Who keeps whipped cream in a torture facility? That’s poor planning.”
Her scent wafts over me as she moves—oleander, sweet but with a toxic undertone that perfectly captures her essence. Where most omegas smell inviting, hers carries a warning: approach at your own risk. It’s deliberately cultivated, I realize—another layer of her carefully constructed chaos.
I try to laugh but it comes out as a groan. “You’re insane.”
“Says the girl who tried to roundhouse kick Alexander.” She settles cross-legged beside me, producing a first aid kit from somewhere. “Your form was terrible, by the way. But points for making him bleed. No one makes him bleed.”
“He stabbed me.”
“Yeah, he does that.” She starts cleaning my wounds. “Did you know he used to dissect things as a kid? Not even animals. Just, like, his emotions. Probably why he’s such a dick now.”
The antiseptic stings, but her touch is surprisingly gentle. “Speaking of dicks, don’t you have some fancy pack meeting tonight?”
Her eyes gleam with unholy amusement. “Oh, that. Daddy’s latest attempt at marrying me off. Some pack from Dubai. Very rich. Very traditional.” She applies a bandage with unnecessary force. “I have plans.”
“Do these plans involve property damage?”
“Property damage is so pedestrian.” She produces a lollipop from her pocket and unwraps it with devastating focus. “I’m thinking bigger. A demon possession. Though I have done that one already. Or something like, accidentally setting off the sprinkler system during their presentation about omega submission. Did you know their alpha is deathly afraid of water? Because I do. I know everything.”
“Going full Joker meets Martha Stewart on these alphas, huh?” I ask, picturing the chaos with disturbing satisfaction.
She grins. “More like Harley Quinn meets MacGyver, but with better organizational skills and more Skittles. And fewer copyright issues.”
“How do you even get this information?” I ask, leveraging the wall to sit up, reclaiming a small piece of control through posture alone.
“I have my ways.” She pauses, expression going distant. “Also, your pack has anger issues. Very messy. No style. They redecorated three of daddy’s facilities.” A small smile plays at her lips. “The security footage was... entertaining.”
The mention of my pack sends an ache through my chest sharper than any of Alexander’s knives. I wonder if Theo’s pre-heat has progressed to full heat by now. The thought sends a pang of regret through me—he’d been fighting those symptoms, holding off for me. Of all the things I’m missing, being absent for that important moment for him feels especially cruel.
I reach instinctively through the tenuous bonds, searching for them in the emptiness. It’s like grasping at smoke—the connection stretched too thin by distance and whatever Sterling has built into this facility. Still, I can feel something—whispers of determination, of rage, of focused purpose.
They’re coming for me.
The knowledge settles in my bones like a promise, equal parts comfort and concern.
Ryker would be coordinating everything, his military mind mapping out every angle of attack.
Jinx would be barely contained violence, held in check only by his love for the pack.
Finn would be turning logic into weapons, finding weaknesses others would miss.
And Theo... Theo would be their emotional anchor, even as his approaching heat made everything harder.
My chest aches with missing them—not just as saviors, but as my home.
By the time Mona finishes detailing her plan to glitter-bomb a pack from Dubai, I’m sitting up straighter. The ache in my ribs is duller, my shoulder no longer screams with each breath.
“You heal fast,” she says, not bothering to hide the curiosity in her voice.
“You drugged me.”
“You’re welcome. Now we both have plausible deniability.”
Not buying that.
“Here.” Mona thrusts another lollipop at me. “For calories. Can’t have you dying of malnutrition before the real fun starts.”
I take it, noting the way she watches to make sure I actually eat it. “You’re weirdly nurturing for a psychopath.”
“Ugh.” Her face scrunches in disgust. “Take that back. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Says the girl feeding me candy in a dungeon.”
“It’s not a dungeon.” She glances around the cell with critical eyes. “It’s more like... a really bad Airbnb. One star. Would not recommend. No Wi-Fi, terrible snack options, and the staff has major boundary issues.”
“So did daddy dearest actually fall for your demon possession act?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. “He made me see three different exorcists. I convinced the first one I was the goddess Kali. The second one quit the church. The third one...” A small, disturbing smile plays at her lips. “Let’s just say he’s taking a very long sabbatical.”
“That’s both horrifying and impressive.”
“It’s a gift.” She produces a candy necklace from somewhere, looping it around her wrist like a bracelet. “Last month, I convinced a pack I was a sleepwalking cannibal. Just had to memorize some Norwegian black metal lyrics and practice my dead-eyed stare.”
I gesture at her current expression. “That’s... not practice though, is it?”
“Rude.” She bites off a piece of her candy jewelry. “By the way, your feral alpha? The pretty one who likes violence? He’s really living up to his reputation. Like, really living up to it. It’s actually kind of inspiring.”
My heart stutters. “Jinx? What did he?—”
“Nothing permanent.” She waves her hand airily. “Just some light maiming. Very artistic. Though the thing with the piano wire was a bit much. I mean, I appreciated the theatrical value, but daddy was not happy about losing that tactical team.”
Pride and worry war in my chest. They’re coming for me, but at what cost?
“Stop that.” Mona flicks my forehead.
“Ow! Stop what?”
“The whole oh no, they’re going to get hurt because of me thing. It’s boring.” She starts braiding tiny sections of her hair. “Besides, they’re having fun. Your beta—the hot nerdy one?—he calculated exactly how much pressure it takes to break fingers while checking for calluses. That’s dedication to the craft.”
I try to picture Finn, with his precise movements and analytical mind, systematically dismantling Sterling’s operation. The mental image blends with memories of chess matches in the mansion, the gentle way he’d explain his strategies even while thoroughly defeating me. Finn, who always made me feel capable instead of broken. It should disturb me how much the image of his methodical vengeance warms my heart.
“The omega’s my favorite though,” Mona continues, now unbraiding her hair with the same intense focus. “Very creative with the pheromone manipulation. Made three alphas cry yesterday. Just...” She mimes wiping away tears. “Beautiful work. Really understands the art of psychological torture.”
“Theo made alphas cry?”
“Honey, your pack?” She pats my cheek with something like pride. “They’re putting my chaos to shame. It’s actually making me a little competitive.” She pauses, considering. “How do you feel about weaponized glitter?”
Before I can answer, she pulls out what looks suspiciously like a homemade glitter bomb. “Never mind, rhetorical question. I already made three.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask, suspicion finally cutting through the haze of pain and sugar. “If you can see what the pack’s doing, so can Roman.”
Mona’s expression shifts subtly, something sharper emerging beneath the chaos. “Daddy sees what I let him see.” She points at the bubblegum-covered camera. “You think this is my first time playing with surveillance? Please. I’ve been rewiring this place since I was twelve. I’ve been injecting SQL exploits into his security systems since before most people knew what SQL was.”
“But the security systems?—”
“Are written by people who think I’m just daddy’s unstable little omega.” Her smile turns predatory. “Amazing what you can accomplish when everyone’s waiting for you to set something on fire instead of watching you code.”
She pulls out another lollipop, this one blood-red. “Besides, the staff likes me better. I only make them cry on Tuesdays. Daddy’s mean to them every day.”
The casual way she drops this information makes me reassess everything I thought I knew about my sister. Under her apparent chaos lies something calculating, something that’s been playing a much longer game than anyone suspected.
I study my omega sister—this beautiful, broken genius who’s been outplaying Roman and Alexander for years. Something inside me shifts, challenging everything I’ve been told about designation hierarchies. If this omega has been systematically dismantling an alpha’s empire from within, and this beta managed to hack Sterling’s impenetrable systems, maybe designations aren’t destiny after all. Maybe they’re just another firewall people use to categorize us—a limitation only powerful if we accept its parameters.
“Does Roman know you’re this smart?”
Mona’s laugh holds no humor. “Daddy thinks he knows everything about his facility. His security. His little omega daughter.” She unwraps the lollipop with deliberate precision. “But he only sees what he expects to see. And he expects me to be crazy.”
“So this is how you maintain your freedom?” I ask, pieces clicking into place. “Playing the unstable omega while actually running circles around him?”
“Freedom is relative in the Sterling household,” she says, voice suddenly flat. “Roman believes omegas exist to serve his vision of designation perfection—the crown jewels in his legacy. I’m just a flawed specimen he keeps around because my brain occasionally produces useful results.” Her oleander scent sharpens with genuine emotion. “The trick isn’t getting freedom—it’s making him think the cage was his idea all along.”
“Alexander’s going to try breaking you again tomorrow.” Mona says this like she’s discussing the weather, but something dark flickers behind her eyes. “He has a whole routine planned. Very methodical. Super boring.”
“You sound like you’ve seen his routine before.”
“Seen it?” She crunches through her lollipop with sudden violence. “I was his first test subject. Daddy wanted him to practice on someone expendable first.” Her smile goes sharp around the edges. “Joke’s on them though. Can’t break what’s already broken.”
The casual way she mentions her own torture makes my stomach turn. “That’s fucked up. He grew up with you.”
“Bold of you to assume growing up together means anything to Alexander.” She starts arranging candy pieces in a precise pattern on the floor. “But you want to know something interesting? For someone so controlled, he has these tiny tells. Like how he always leads with his right side because daddy made him practice until he forgot he was naturally left-handed.”
I file this information away, categorizing Alexander’s weaknesses like I would backdoor vulnerabilities in a security system—each one a potential exploit to be targeted with precision.
“Or how...” She pauses, tilting her head. “Did you notice how he gets sloppy when you mention his mother? Any mother, really. It’s like watching a computer glitch. Very entertaining. I used to do it during family dinners just to watch him malfunction.”
“That’s why you’re telling me this.” The realization hits like a punch. “You’re giving me weapons.”
“I’m sharing sisterly gossip.” She begins dismantling her candy pattern with the same focus she used to create it. “Like how he can’t stand the smell of lavender because that’s what the omega he actually loved wore before daddy had her disappeared. Or how his left knee never healed properly after that training accident when he was sixteen.”
The clinical way she catalogs our brother’s weaknesses sends a chill down my spine. How long has she been collecting these vulnerabilities, storing them away like zero-day exploits in a hacker’s black book? Alexander’s pressure points—mapped, documented, and ready to be executed with the precision of a SQL injection attack—the kind that bypasses all security and goes straight to the core.
“Why are you helping me?”
Mona meets my eyes, and for a moment, her carefully crafted mask of chaos slips. “Because Alexander isn’t the only one who had to practice breaking things.” She pops another piece of candy in her mouth. “And maybe I want to see what happens when someone finally breaks him instead.”
“That training accident,” I venture, watching her face carefully. “Was it really an accident?”
Something like pride flickers across her features. “I was eleven.” She arranges more candy on the floor, this time in what looks suspiciously like a human anatomy diagram. “He was sixteen and thought he was invincible. Daddy told him to teach me self-defense.”
The way she says it tells me exactly how well that went.
“Alexander didn’t think an omega needed to learn how to fight properly.” She marks an X over the candy-knee with a piece of licorice. “So I learned improperly. Oops.”
“You broke his knee. At eleven.”
“Shattered it, actually.” She begins marking other points on her candy diagram. “Turns out those fancy marble stairs were really slippery. Especially after someone waxed specific spots. With math. And physics. And maybe a little premeditation.”
Jesus Christ.
“The doctors said he’d never walk right again.” Her voice carries an edge of satisfaction. “Daddy was so angry. Made me watch while they reset it without anesthesia. Thought it would teach me empathy.”
My stomach turns. “Did it?”
“Oh yes.” Her smile would give serial killers nightmares. “I learned exactly how much pressure it takes to break someone. How bones sound when they splinter. Where to hit to cause the most damage.” She pauses, considering her candy diagram. “Daddy’s lessons always backfire like that. He’s not very good at positive reinforcement.”
“That’s why Alexander hates you.”
“He doesn’t hate me.” She pops a piece of her anatomy lesson into her mouth. “He fears me. There’s a difference. See, he knows what I can do, but he can never prove it was intentional. It’s our special game—pretending I’m just daddy’s unstable little omega while we both remember the sound his knee made on those stairs.”
“You’re actually terrifying.”
“Thank you.” She beams at me. “Want to know where else he’s weak? I’ve had eighteen years to catalog every single vulnerability.” Her smile turns predatory. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you use them.”
“Before you teach me Alexander’s weak spots,” I say, watching her rearrange her candy anatomy into what looks disturbingly like an autopsy diagram, “can I ask you something?”
“Is it about my mental stability? Because that’s boring. I already know I’m crazy.” She places a red gummy bear where the heart should be. “But I’m crazy with spreadsheets. And contingency plans. And maybe a few manifestos. I’m very organized about my instability.”
“That’s... both comforting and disturbing.”
“Story of my life.” She offers me another lollipop. “I color-code my murder plans. Daddy thinks I’m doing art therapy.”
I take the candy, because apparently this is my life now—plotting violence while sharing sweets with my homicidal sister. “How are you so...”
“Delightfully unhinged?”
“Self-aware about it.”
She pauses her candy arranging, something vulnerable flickering across her face before the mask of controlled chaos slides back into place. “Because crazy doesn’t mean stupid. I know exactly what they made me into. I just decided to become it on my own terms.”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. Because isn’t that what we’re both doing? Taking the damage they inflicted and reshaping it into armor?
“The Sterling legacy,” she continues, sorting red Skittles into what looks disturbingly like a bloodstain pattern, “means different things to different designations. Alphas get the empire —they’re the crown princes, the generals, daddy’s perfect soldiers. Omegas are treasures to be displayed and controlled—the jewels in his crown. And betas?” She glances at me. “They’re redundant code to him—useful tools at best, genetic failures at worst. That’s why you’re down here instead of in the labs. You’re a glitch in his perfect system.”
“Now,” she continues, producing a packet of Skittles from somewhere, “let me teach you about the beautiful weak spot behind Alexander’s left ear. Did you know if you hit it just right, he loses equilibrium for exactly forty-three seconds? I have spreadsheets.”
“Forty-three seconds is a lot of time,” I muse, watching her meticulously sort Skittles by color.
“Enough time to do considerable damage.” She arranges the red ones in a disturbingly accurate blood spatter pattern. “Or escape. Or both. I’m not picky about order of operations.”
A door clangs somewhere in the distance, and Mona’s head snaps up like a predator scenting prey. “Time’s up. Daddy’s guards do rounds soon, and I have a date with some very traditional alphas and their germaphobe leader.”
She stands in one fluid motion, gathering her candy arsenal with surprising speed. “Try not to die tomorrow. Alexander gets boring when he’s smug.”
“Try not to traumatize your suitors too badly.”
Her smile would make demons nervous. “But trauma is my love language.” She produces one final lollipop, pressing it into my hand. “Besides, I need them to run crying to daddy about his demon spawn omega. It’s part of my five-year plan.”
“You have a five-year plan?”
“I have several. All color-coded. Some involving glitter.” She backs toward the door, her movements suddenly silent and predatory. “The real question is, do you want to be part of them?”
Before I can answer, she’s gone, leaving me with candy, combat intel, and the growing suspicion that my sister might be the most dangerous Sterling of all.
Through the speakers—still dripping with whipped cream—I hear distant screaming, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a glitter bomb detonation.
Somewhere in this facility, Mona Sterling is unleashing carefully calculated chaos on unsuspecting alphas, probably while maintaining perfect spreadsheets about their psychological breakdown.
I unwrap my lollipop and smile.
Maybe being a Sterling doesn’t have to mean being a monster. Maybe it just means being monster-adjacent, with really good organizational skills.
As I shift position, a fresh wave of pain shoots through my stab wounds, reminding me of tomorrow’s upcoming session with Alexander. My body instinctively reaches through those stretched pack bonds again, searching for comfort, for connection. The emptiness where they should be feels suddenly vast and terrifying, my beta biology screaming for a protection I’ve spent my life denying I needed.
For the first time since the cell, I feel it—faint but unmistakable. A thread pulling through the fog. Not pain. Not rage. Them.
Maybe it wasn’t the bond breaking.
Maybe it was me keeping the door closed.
And now? Maybe I’m ready to open it again.
For the first time since my capture, real fear crawls up my spine. Not of Alexander or his torture—but of the possibility that even if I survive this, the pack might not be able to reach me in time before Roman implements whatever he has planned next.
I pop the lollipop in my mouth and try to ignore how my hands won’t stop shaking.