5. Cayenne
Chapter 5
Cayenne
The cell door creaks open, the sound slicing through my restless sleep like one of Alexander’s knives. No footsteps, no breathing, just the mocking invitation of an empty doorway. The silence feels deliberate, weighted with malice.
Mona’s voice echoes in my head: He likes to play with his food.
I push myself up, every wound from yesterday’s training screaming in protest. The stab wound in my stomach throbs with each heartbeat, a heated pulse of pain that radiates outward. My shoulder—still tender from the bullet and Alexander’s knife—protests even the smallest movement. The bruises from our previous encounter have bloomed into a masterpiece of purple and green across my ribs, limiting my range of motion before I even start.
I reach instinctively through the pack bond, seeking strength beyond my physical limitations. Though stretched and thin like damaged code, I feel something respond—a distant pulse that whispers I’m not alone. The connection is too weak to draw power from, but knowing they’re still searching steadies me.
The cell’s dim lighting casts long shadows into the corridor beyond, but something about the darkness feels wrong. Calculated. Like the negative space in a photograph, designed to draw the eye exactly where the photographer wants it to go.
He’s out there. Watching. Waiting to see what his lab rat will do when offered the illusion of escape.
“Trying to figure out if I’m desperate enough to run?” My voice bounces off concrete walls, steady despite the fear churning in my gut. “That’s lazy writing, brother. I expected better plot development.”
A laugh whispers through the shadows, cold as a morgue drawer. “Can’t blame me for using the classics.” Alexander’s voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Besides, you haven’t earned my more creative work yet.”
I track the sound, remembering Mona’s candy-arranged anatomy lesson. He leads with his right because daddy made him forget he was left-handed. Every forced change leaves a tell, if you know where to look.
“Creative like getting your ass handed to you by an eleven-year-old omega?” The words slip out before I can stop them, a test of Mona’s intel about his triggers.
The temperature in the corridor seems to drop ten degrees.
“You’ve been talking to our dear sister.” His voice carries an edge I haven’t heard before—something raw and ugly. “Tell me, did she share her little sob story? Poor broken Mona, daddy’s favorite mistake?”
“Sounds like someone’s jealous.” I edge toward the doorway, cataloging my surroundings with new precision. “Did it bother you, watching father favor the omega while trying to turn you into his perfect alpha weapon?”
A shadow detaches from the darkness, Alexander’s movement suddenly visible. There—he’s favoring his left side, just slightly. Old habits dying hard.
“You know nothing about this family.” His words carry the weight of years of carefully controlled rage. “You’re just another one of father’s experiments. A beta mistake he’s trying to correct.”
“And what are you?” I shift my weight, remembering how Mona described his tells. “The son he had to break and remake until you forgot who you really were? At least I know what I am. Do you?”
The snarl that tears from his throat sounds almost animal. Almost human. Alpha pheromones flood the cell, that instinctive dominance display meant to trigger submission in lesser designations. Where an omega might falter under the onslaught, I feel only a mild pressure—the benefit of being beta is imperviousness to most designation manipulation.
Good. Anger makes him sloppy.
Time to see if little sister’s combat notes are as accurate as her psychological warfare.
He moves like mercury, all liquid grace and poison promise. But now that I know what to look for, I see what Mona meant—the slight hesitation before each right-side attack, the way he overcompensates for that old knee injury.
The cell’s tight confines work against his longer reach, forcing him to adjust his approach. His fist grazes the concrete wall as I sidestep, leaving a smear of blood on the dingy surface.
I use the rusty sink fixture to pivot, gaining precious inches of space while using the cramped environment to my advantage.
“Is this all you’ve got?” I taunt, ducking under his first strike, my wounded shoulder screaming as I force it through the movement. “Daddy’s perfect alpha, and you’re still telegraphing your moves like an amateur.”
His next punch carries enough force to shatter concrete, but the rage behind it makes it predictable. I slip past his guard, targeting that sweet spot behind his left ear that Mona mapped out with Skittles.
The hit lands. His equilibrium wavers—forty-three seconds on the clock.
“You think knowing a few weak points makes you special?” He recovers faster than I expect, but there’s something new in his eyes now. Something almost like fear. “You think that broken little omega’s tricks will save you?”
“No.” I dance back, keeping space between us, fighting through the pain of my previous injuries. “But they make this a lot more interesting.”
His laugh holds no humor. “You’re just like her. Both of you, thinking you’re so clever.” He advances, each step measured despite his rage. “But you want to know the real difference between you and Mona?”
I taste copper as one of his hits connects with my jaw. “Enlighten me.”
“She survived her training.” His smile turns cruel. “You won’t.”
The next few moments blur into a symphony of violence. He’s stronger, faster, more experienced—but I have something he doesn’t expect. I have a sister who spent eighteen years cataloging every flaw in his perfect facade.
Left knee at thirty-degree angle? Buckles under precise pressure. Favors right hook combinations? Leaves his liver exposed. That old shoulder injury from his Special Forces days? Absolutely hates being dislocated.
My body protests with each movement, yesterday’s wounds screaming as fresh ones join them.
My ribs catch fire when I twist to avoid his grab, the knife wound in my stomach threatening to reopen.
My vision tunnels briefly after a particularly hard block, but I force myself to focus through the pain.
Adapt. Compensate. The injured shoulder means I need to lead with my right, even when it’s not ideal. My breathing comes in controlled bursts, trying to maximize oxygen without aggravating my ribs.
I reach deeper through the pack bond, needing strength beyond what my body can provide. Theo’s artistic warmth flows like music, but carries a new edge to it—his pre-heat must have progressed further in my absence. The thought that he’s fighting both his biology and his worry for me gives me a surge of determination. I won’t let him suffer like that for nothing.
The connection strengthens momentarily—Jinx’s feral rage burning like a distant star, Finn’s analytical focus cutting through pain with mathematical precision, and Ryker’s unwavering resolve anchoring it all.
The sensation gives me just enough to duck Alexander’s next strike, using his momentum against him.
I land three solid hits for every five of his, each one targeting the weaknesses Mona mapped out in sugar and spite. His fury grows with every successful strike, making him more dangerous but less controlled.
Something strange twists in my chest with each effective hit—a sick satisfaction tangled with something like grief. These hands are mine but the knowledge behind them comes from my sister. The blood on his face matches the blood in my veins. Family shouldn’t be about finding the perfect angle to make each other bleed.
But he made his choice. And I’m making mine.
“What’s wrong, brother?” Blood trickles from my split lip as I smile. “Did someone finally teach you what it feels like to bleed?”
The roar that tears from his throat sounds nothing like the controlled killer who first walked in. This is something primal, something father dearest tried to train out of him.
Good. Let him feel something real for once.
His fist connects with my ribs—still bruised from yesterday—and stars explode behind my eyes. But even as I stumble, I hear Mona’s voice: He always follows a rib shot with a right cross. Always. Daddy trained that combo into him until it was reflex.
I’m already moving before his next punch launches, using his own momentum against him. The throw is pure instinct, fueled by pain and desperation and eighteen years of Mona’s carefully documented observations.
He hits the wall hard enough to crack concrete.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The sight of Alexander—perfect, precise Alexander—sprawled inelegantly on the floor seems to surprise us both.
Then he laughs, the sound raw and horrible. “You actually think you’re winning.” He pushes himself up, blood painting his teeth red. “You think knowing my weaknesses gives you power?”
“Seems to be working so far.”
His smile turns razor-sharp. “Then let me teach you something about weakness, little sister.”
He moves faster than I can track, and suddenly I’m airborne. The impact when I hit the ground drives every molecule of air from my lungs.
Before I can recover, his boot finds my stomach—right where he stabbed me yesterday.
“You want to know the real difference between you and Mona?” His voice carries something almost like regret as he drives his heel into my wound again. “She learned when to stay down.”
Through the haze of pain, I see him pull out a familiar knife. The same one he used yesterday, still stained with my blood.
“But you?” He crouches beside me, blade catching light. “You’re going to learn a much harder lesson.”
A shadow moves in the corridor behind him—too small to be a guard, too silent to be anyone but her. The faint scent of oleander drifts through the cell, sweet but with that toxic undertone that means salvation wrapped in danger.
I meet his eyes and smile through bloody teeth. “Are you sure about that?”
The confusion on his face lasts exactly half a second before Mona’s candy-colored taser connects with the back of his neck.
Alexander drops like a puppet with cut strings, limbs twitching as electricity courses through him. The knife clatters to the ground beside my head.
“Forty-three seconds,” Mona announces, studying our brother’s convulsing form with clinical interest. “Plus about two minutes for the nervous system to recover from 50,000 volts. I have spreadsheets on the exact recovery time. Very thorough data set.”
She offers me a hand up, producing a lollipop from somewhere with her free hand. “Also, your form was sloppy. But points for making him bleed. That’s always fun.”
“You tasered our brother.” I accept both her hand and the lollipop, because apparently sugar is now part of our trauma bonding experience.
“Obviously.” She nudges Alexander with her foot, head tilted like she’s studying an interesting science experiment. “The voltage might have been a little high. Oops. My math is usually better, but I got excited.”
“You’re insane.”
“Thank you.” She preens a little before her expression shifts to something more clinical. “We have approximately ninety-three seconds before he regains motor function. Eighty-eight now. Eighty-seven...”
“What happens then?”
“Nothing good.” She produces what looks like hospital gauze from her oversized sweater. “He’s going to be very angry. And while watching him malfunction is usually entertaining, his violence-to-creativity ratio tends to skew poorly when he’s emotionally compromised.”
As if to prove her point, Alexander’s fingers start to twitch. First pinky, then ring finger, a sequence of neural pathways gradually reconnecting.
“Seventy-four seconds,” Mona narrates, wrapping gauze around my bleeding knuckles with surprising gentleness. “Also, daddy’s going to be very disappointed that his perfect alpha son got taken down by his crazy omega daughter. Again.” Her smile turns sharp. “I do so love creating family drama.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I contain multitudes.” She finishes the bandaging with a little flourish. “Fifty-two seconds. We should probably run.”
Alexander groans, the sound carrying promises of violence. His eyelids flutter, consciousness returning in stages that Mona seems to have timed with meticulous precision.
“Forty-nine seconds.” Mona pulls another taser from her sweater. “I have a backup. Just in case. I believe in being prepared. Also, I really like electrocuting him. It’s very satisfying.”
“Why are you even here?” I whisper, keeping one eye on Alexander’s twitching form.
She leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was coming to tell you about the maintenance tunnel behind the east wing. Guards change at 3 AM. Security cameras on a forty-second loop.” Her eyes dart to Alexander. “But then I found big brother playing his boring dominance games and thought shocking him might be more fun.”
“You’re talking about escape.”
“I’m talking about options.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with calculated casualness. “For when you’re ready to see more of the facility than just this charming dungeon suite.”
I stare at my sister—this brilliant, broken creature who turns violence into art and trauma into tactical advantage—and feel something that might be love.
“Thirty-three seconds!” She sing-songs, practically bouncing. “Time for the crazy omega to disappear. Try not to die—I’m collecting data on your survival rates. For science.”
She melts into shadows just as Alexander’s eyes start to focus, leaving me with wrapped wounds, cavity-inducing emotional support, and the growing certainty that I can’t leave this place without her.
Behind me, my brother pushes himself up, radiating murderous intent.
Round two, I guess.
At least this time I know exactly where to hit.
Alexander rises like something out of a nightmare, each movement a study in barely controlled rage. The air around him practically crackles with alpha energy, but now I see what Mona meant—the subtle tremors in his hands, the way his carefully constructed control fractures around the edges.
“Did our sister’s little toy hurt?” I tap my own neck, mimicking where the taser connected. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she has charts about any lasting nerve damage.”
His snarl echoes off concrete walls. “You think this is funny?”
“Actually, yes.” I shift into a defensive stance, cataloging his tells with new understanding. “The great Alexander Sterling, taken down by bubble gum and candy bribes. It’s hilarious.”
“She’s using you.” He advances, but there’s something different in his movement now—something almost desperate.
“Playing her little games, making you think you understand. But you don’t know her. Not really.”
“I know she survived you.”
“Survived me?” His laugh holds no humor.
“Is that what she told you? Poor little Mona, daddy’s favorite victim?”
He moves faster than I can track, pinning me against the wall. “Ask her sometime what really happened to the pack that almost claimed her when she was sixteen. Ask her about the fires.”
Despite the pressure on my throat, I smile. “Worried about little sister’s body count?”
His grip tightens. “Worried? No. Unlike you, I know exactly what kind of monster wears our sister’s skin.”
I close my eyes briefly, drawing on what my pack has taught me—Ryker’s tactical patience, Jinx’s embrace of controlled chaos, Finn’s analytical precision, and Theo’s understanding of how to turn weakness into strength. Four distinct influences melding with my own skills to create something Alexander can’t predict.
“The real question is...” He leans closer, eyes searching mine. “What kind of monster are you?”
The answer comes in the form of Mona’s tactical lessons—a knee to his weakened joint, an elbow to that sweet spot behind his ear, a strike to the solar plexus that makes him stumble back.
“The kind that learns from family.” I follow up with a combination that targets every weakness Mona mapped out. “The kind that pays attention.”
He recovers quickly, but something’s changed in his expression. The rage remains, but now there’s something else—something almost like recognition.
“You’re just like her.” The words come out wondering, horrified. “A perfect mirror of her chaos, just wrapped in beta skin.”
“Funny.” I taste blood as I smile. “She says I remind her of you. Back before daddy broke you into his perfect alpha shape.”
The noise he makes isn’t quite human.
Good.
Time to find out exactly how much damage two broken Sterling siblings can do to the one who forgot how to break right.
With each exchange, I feel the Sterling legacy written in our movements—his clinical precision versus my adaptive chaos. But beneath it pulses a different influence—Pack Locke’s protection rather than Sterling’s destruction. That’s the real difference between us. He fights to please a father who sees him as a weapon; I fight to return to people who see me as family.
The fight becomes a dance of blood and broken family ties. Each blow carries years of Sterling history—the perfect son, the hidden daughter, the unwanted mistake.
With every hit I land using Mona’s intel, Alexander’s expression shifts from rage to something closer to understanding.
“You still don’t see it, do you?” He catches my fist inches from his face, blood painting both our knuckles.
“Why she’s really helping you?”
“Because unlike you, some siblings actually give a shit about each other?”
His laugh sounds almost sad.
“You think you’re the first one she’s helped? The first one she’s armed with all my weaknesses?”
He shoves me back, but doesn’t press the advantage.
“Ask her about the others. Ask her what happened to the last person she decided to save from this place.”
Something in his tone makes my blood run cold.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why do you think father lets her run around playing crazy omega?” He wipes blood from his mouth, eyes never leaving mine.
“Because she’s the most effective trap he’s ever created. There have been others before you—lab assistants, guards, even a beta researcher from Columbia who thought he’d found an ally in daddy’s unstable omega.”
“And?”
“And no one ever saw them again. Officially, they were terminated for security breaches. Unofficially?” His eyes darken. “Let’s just say Mona’s talent for identifying weaknesses isn’t limited to me.”
From somewhere in the facility, an alarm begins to wail. Alexander’s smile turns sharp.
“Right on schedule.” He backs toward the door. “Better hope you’re as special as she thinks you are, little sister. The last one who trusted her didn’t survive the punchline.”
He disappears into darkness, leaving me with split knuckles and spinning thoughts. Above me, through speakers still sticky with whipped cream, I hear Mona’s laugh echo through the facility—beautiful and broken and maybe more dangerous than any of us realized.
What kind of game is she really playing?
And whose side is she actually on?