7. Cayenne
Chapter 7
Cayenne
Fever dreams taste like copper and candy. Every time I surface through the heat, reality shifts and fragments?—
I’m seven years old, watching my mother cry over a music box, its delicate melody warped by her sobs. The porcelain ballerina spins endlessly, her perfect pirouettes a stark contrast to my mother’s shaking hands as she whispers “I’m sorry” over and over. I never knew what she was apologizing for. Now I wonder if she knew what I’d become.
I’m sixteen, blood on my knuckles from my first real fight, the taste of victory and violence mixing with fear as I realize how good it feels to finally hit back.
I’m in that barn with Finn, his careful hands learning my body like a prayer, each touch deliberate as picking locks, as cracking codes. He’d taken me apart with the same focused intensity he used to dismantle security systems, until I came undone beneath his methodical devotion. The memory of hay against my back mingles with the scent of old wood and new possibilities.
I’m here, now, burning from the inside out as Alexander’s artwork decorates my flesh with surgical precision. Each cut a signature, each bruise a reminder that sharing blood doesn’t make you family.
“Stop being dramatic and take the antibiotics.” Mona’s voice cuts through the delirium, sharp as the knife our brother used to paint his masterpiece.
Something cold presses against my lips—pills, probably, though trusting anything she gives me feels dangerous now.
Alexander’s words echo in my head. Ask her about the last one she tried to save.
“You’re thinking too loud.” She forces the pills into my mouth, following them with what tastes like cherry cough syrup. “Also, you have a hundred and two degree fever because someone decided to play stabbing games with Alexander. Very sloppy. I expected better.”
I try to focus on her face, but the fever makes everything blur at the edges. Her oleander scent carries notes of clinical antiseptic beneath the sweetness, the contrast as jarring as her chaos-wrapped precision. Where Roman surrounds himself with sterile hospital efficiency, Mona’s approach to medicine involves candy wrappers and technicolor band-aids beside professional-grade antibiotics.
“Did they die?”
“Who?”
“The others. The ones you helped before.”
Her movements still, that carefully constructed chaos going quiet. For a moment, I see something real beneath her mask—something old and sharp and maybe a little sad.
“Interesting timing for that question.” She starts arranging items on a medical tray with mechanical precision. “Did our dear brother have a sharing moment during your bonding session?”
“Did they die?” I press, though talking makes my ribs scream.
“Define die.” She begins cleaning my wounds with methodical focus. “Technically, everyone dies eventually. Very inefficient system, mortality. I have spreadsheets.”
“Mona.”
“Fine.” She puts down the gauze, meeting my eyes with that unnervingly direct stare. “They’re not dead. They’re relocated. Underground. Hidden. Safe.” Her smile turns predatory. “Did you really think I’d play daddy’s game for this long without building my own pieces?”
Before I can process that, footsteps echo down the corridor. Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
“Shit.” Mona flows through shadow like water through cracks, her movements quick and deadly as poison as she gathers her supplies. “Daddy’s coming to check his experiment.”
Terror cuts through the fever. “Wait?—”
“Count to seventy-three,” she whispers, already melting into shadows. “I’ll be back. Try not to die while I’m gone. It would ruin all my data points.”
The footsteps grow closer as darkness claims me again. This time, my fever dreams taste like cherry medicine and betrayal, and I’m not sure which is worse.
Roman Sterling glides in like death in an expensive suit, each footfall a countdown to violence wrapped in silk and sophistication. The lights flicker on without warning, stabbing through my fever-sensitive eyes. Even through blurred vision, I can see how perfectly he’s crafted his appearance—expertly tailored suit, precisely styled hair, every detail calculated for maximum impact.
“Your temperature is elevated.” He consults a tablet, frowning at whatever data scrolls across its surface. “Alexander’s enthusiasm compromises the experiment’s parameters.”
I laugh, though it feels like swallowing glass. “Sorry daddy’s perfect alpha got carried away with the torture.”
His eyes flick to mine—green, like Alexander’s, like mine. But where Alexander’s hold ice and mine hold fire, Roman’s are empty. Like looking into a beautiful void.
“Fascinating.” He makes a note on his tablet. “Even with a severe infection, you maintain that particular spirit. The beta drive to challenge authority persists despite clear disadvantage.”
“Maybe I just don’t like you.”
“Your personal feelings are irrelevant to the larger work.” He sets the tablet aside, pulling on latex gloves with clinical precision. “Though I admit, I’d hoped for better from my own genetic material.”
The needle he produces catches light like a threat. I try to move, but my fever-weak muscles betray me.
“Your mother had such potential,” he continues, swabbing my arm with alcohol. “Brilliant mind. Exceptional musical talent. But she lacked...vision.” The needle slides home. “She couldn’t understand that sometimes progress requires sacrifice.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” The words come out slurred as whatever he’s injecting burns through my veins. “That kidnapping and torture is just... progress?”
“Science requires data.” He watches my reaction with the same interest someone might show a particularly engaging chess match. “And you, my dear mistake, are going to provide exactly the data I need.”
Through the haze of whatever he’s injected, I study his face—looking for anything familiar, any hint of the man who must have once charmed my mother. The one she wrote about in her letter, the pages I found hidden in my music box after her death, warning me about the man who would seek the perfect designation formula at any cost.
There’s nothing there but calculation, as though he’s carved away every part of himself that might feel regret or remorse or anything human at all. I wonder if he sees himself as a monster, or if he truly believes his own lies. If he goes home at night and sleeps soundly, convinced that his crimes are justified by some greater purpose.
The scariest part isn’t that he’s a monster—it’s that he’s convinced himself he’s a visionary.
Through rapidly blurring vision, I see him remove a second syringe. This one glows faintly green, like toxic promise.
“The virus responds best to elevated body temperature,” he explains, as though discussing the weather. “Your infection is actually quite fortuitous. Alexander’s violence serves a purpose after all.”
The second needle bites deep. Fire floods my system, worse than fever, worse than Alexander’s knife. Someone is screaming. It might be me. Definitely me.
“Fascinating,” I hear him murmur, his voice growing distant. “The cellular response is almost immediate.”
Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, but not before I catch a glimpse of movement behind Roman’s shoulder—a shadow that might be Mona, watching with unreadable eyes as our father tries to rewrite my genetic code.
The virus progresses in waves, each one more intense than the last.
First comes the burning, like acid racing through every vessel. Then the pressure builds behind my eyes until colors fracture and blur. By the third wave, my skin feels too tight, stretched over bones that seem to be attempting to reshape themselves. My muscles spasm randomly, fingers curling into claws before suddenly releasing.
The most terrifying sensation isn’t the pain—it’s the subtle shifting beneath my skin, as though my beta designation markers are being forcibly rewritten at the cellular level, my biology rebelling against what Roman’s virus is trying to transform it into.
Through it all, the fever climbs steadily, turning my thoughts to steam and memory to molten metal.
In a moment of clarity between waves, I reach desperately through the pack bond, searching for that thread of connection that has become as vital as my own heartbeat. Through the haze of fever and Roman’s virus, I feel them—distant but undeniable, each presence distinct despite the miles between us.
Ryker’s unwavering resolve, steady as mountain stone.
Jinx’s feral energy, coiled and ready to unleash.
Finn’s analytical focus, already calculating paths of approach.
Theo’s artistic warmth, a beacon promising safety despite the strange undercurrent I’d sensed in him before I left—that tension I couldn’t quite place that made his scent shift subtly, like he was fighting something within himself.
The connection steadies me even as the next wave of fire claims me, my body instinctively yearning toward the safety of pack as my designation biology fights Roman’s intrusion.
The last thing I hear before consciousness fails is Roman’s clinical observation: “Begin recording test subject’s response to Protocol Seven. Beta designation subject shows promising initial reaction...”
Then there’s nothing but green fire in my blood, memories melting like wax?—
My mother at her piano, fingers dancing across keys as she teaches me about patterns. “Music is mathematics with soul,” she says, not knowing her daughter would one day use those patterns to break into systems instead of creating art.
The first time I wrote code, watching numbers become power, become freedom. The screen’s glow replacing the warmth I couldn’t find anywhere else.
Theo at his piano, drawing music from chaos just like my sister draws order from candy wrappers and violence.
My body burns with Roman’s progress, but my mind fills with my mother’s last song—the one she played the night we moved from one town to another, her fingers steady even as tears fell. I never understood why she chose that particular melody until now. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a warning.
The green fire consumes everything except the taste of cherry cough syrup turning to ash on my tongue.
Consciousness returns in fragments, each piece sharper than the last. My blood feels like acid, like someone replaced my veins with molten glass. Through the haze of fever and whatever Roman injected, I hear voices arguing.
“—completely compromised the experiment. Your emotional involvement?—”
“Emotional? Me? Daddy, I’m hurt. Also bored. But mostly hurt.”
“The infection requires treatment.”
“Obviously. I have eyes. And a medical degree. Which you paid for. Very expensive. Much gratitude.”
My eyes won’t focus, but I’d know Mona’s deadpan delivery anywhere. She’s talking faster than usual, a tell I didn’t realize she had until now.
“Your sister’s genetic structure?—”
“Half-sister,” Mona corrects with artificial brightness. “Very important distinction. Vital, really. Like antibiotics. Speaking of which...”
Something clatters. Papers rustling. Roman’s sigh carries the weight of years dealing with Mona’s particular brand of chaos.
“Fine. Treat the infection. But no interference with Protocol Seven. Am I clear?”
“Crystal. Like that vase I broke last week. Complete accident. Totally not because the alpha you invited to dinner tried to scent mark me.”
Footsteps retreat. A door closes. Then cool hands press against my forehead, surprisingly gentle.
“He’s gone. You can stop pretending to be unconscious now.”
I crack one eye open. “Wasn’t pretending.”
“Liar.” But there’s something almost like concern in her voice as she checks my pulse. “Your heart’s racing. Probably the virus. Or the fever. Or that thing you’re doing where you don’t trust me now. Very inconvenient timing for trust issues, by the way.”
“Mona—”
“Shut up and let me think.” She starts pacing, unwrapping a lollipop with sharp, agitated movements. “The virus is designed to target beta genetic markers. Very specific. Extremely unstable. Probably going to kill you.” She pauses. “Unless...”
“Unless what?”
Her smile carries edges sharp enough to cut. “Unless someone’s been sabotaging daddy’s research for years. Hypothetically. Through careful application of candy-related chaos and extremely precise mathematical errors.”
Hope feels dangerous right now, but I can’t help asking, “Have you?”
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “What kind of psychotic omega genius would I be if I didn’t have contingency plans? I have spreadsheets. Color-coded. Very organized.”
The room spins as another wave of fire courses through my veins. “Why help me?”
“Because daddy’s perfect little experiment needs to fail spectacularly.” She produces a syringe filled with clear liquid. “Also, you’re moderately less boring than most people. And you appreciate my artistic approach to pack rejection. Now hold still. This might hurt.”
“Might?”
“Will. Definitely will. But probably less than the virus currently trying to rewrite your genetic code.” She finds a vein with practiced ease. “Consider it character building. Very educational.”
As the needle slides home, I grab her wrist. “The others. The ones you helped before. Are they really safe?”
For a moment, her mask slips. Something real and fierce shows through. “Safer than here. Underground network. Very elaborate. Excellent candy supply chain.” She meets my eyes. “I don’t save people, Cayenne. I just give them the tools to save themselves.”
“The network—how big is it?” I press, sensing a blueprint behind her chaos.
“Thirty-eight former Sterling employees. Seventeen research subjects. Four pack doctors who asked too many questions. Three former government inspectors.” Her eyes hold something like pride beneath the calculation. “All with new identities. All connected through coded communication channels. All waiting for the signal.”
The new injection burns, but differently than Roman’s virus. Clean somehow. Like fire burning out infection.
“Also,” she adds, disposing of the syringe with mechanical precision, “your pack is coming. Very dramatic rescue operation planned. I have opinions about their tactical approach, but that’s irrelevant right now.”
My heart stutters, an ache blossoming that has nothing to do with the virus. An image of Ryker planning the assault flashes through my mind—his jaw set in that way that means someone’s going to regret crossing him. Jinx, vibrating with the kind of focused violence he usually tries to contain. Finn calculating every variable, every possibility, the way his eyes get when he’s solving problems no one else can see. And Theo, probably using his omega gifts to keep them all from charging in without a plan.
“They’re really coming? All of them?” The question comes out smaller than I intended, weighted with more than just the need for rescue. “How do you?—”
“I know everything.” She starts arranging cough drop wrappers into what looks suspiciously like building schematics.
“I color-code my murderous impulses,” Mona announces, still arranging cough drop wrappers with disturbing precision. “Red for arson-related solutions. Blue for drowning potential pack suitors. Purple for poison, obviously. Very systematic.”
Despite the fire in my veins, I find myself asking, “What color is helping your sister escape?”
“Chartreuse.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s an unpleasant color for an unpleasant situation. Also, it annoys Alexander because he can never pronounce it right.”
I try to push myself up, immediately regretting it as the room spins. “Why do you do that?”
“Annoy Alexander? Because it’s fun. Also therapeutic. I have charts.”
“No.” The word comes out rough. “Why do you hide how smart you are behind the crazy?”
Her movements still, that artificial chaos going quiet. For a moment, I see something real—calculation sharp as a scalpel, wit honed into a weapon.
“People expect the omega daughter to be unstable,” she says finally, each word precise. “Daddy’s broken little girl, playing with candy and setting fires. They never look deeper. Never see the pattern in the chaos.”
Her smile turns razor-sharp. “Amazing what you can accomplish when everyone’s watching for the wrong kind of dangerous.”
“Like building an underground network.”
“Hypothetically.” She resumes her wrapper arrangement. “Also hypothetically, certain research notes might have been systematically altered over the years. Certain formulas corrupted. Certain results skewed just enough to be useless without anyone noticing.”
Understanding dawns through the fever haze. “You’ve been sabotaging him.”
“I’ve been surviving him,” she corrects. “There’s a difference. Survival requires precision. Planning. Very detailed spreadsheets.” She meets my eyes. “The others didn’t die, Cayenne. They’re part of the plan. A very long, very elaborate plan that you’re currently bleeding all over.”
“What plan?”
Her laugh holds no humor. “The one where we burn everything our father built to the ground. Metaphorically. Probably literally. I’m flexible about the methodology.”
“Sleep,” Mona says, her usual manic energy softening just slightly. “Your pack should be receiving my little mathematical breadcrumbs by now. Very precise coordinates. Extremely specific timing windows.”
My eyes grow heavy as whatever cocktail of drugs she’s given me takes hold. “You’re helping them find me?”
“I’m helping them be useful,” she corrects. “They’re very good at violence. It would be wasteful not to utilize that particular skill set.”
Through increasingly blurred vision, I watch her methodically destroy evidence of her presence—wrappers, bandages, every trace that she was ever here.
“Your virus symptoms should peak in exactly six hours,” she continues, movements precise. “Very convenient timing. I have charts.”
“Why are you really helping me?”
She pauses at the door, that artificial mania dropping away completely. For just a moment, I see the real Mona Sterling—brilliant, dangerous, and absolutely lethal.
“Because sometimes the most dangerous weapon isn’t the one that looks scary.” She flicks off the lights. “Sometimes it’s the broken little omega with really good math skills and a hobby of collecting other people’s monsters.”
As consciousness fades, I hear her humming what sounds like a lullaby. It might be comforting if I didn’t recognize it as the same tune she was humming when she electrocuted our brother.
The fever pulls me under in waves of green and memory?—
My mother’s hands, strong despite their shaking, packing a single bag. “Sometimes running is the bravest thing you can do,” she whispers, though I wouldn’t understand for years.
Mona’s fingers arranging candy like battle plans, building weapons from sugar and spite. Another Sterling woman turning survival into art.
The pack’s scent lingering in my clothes, four different kinds of protection I never thought I’d need. Never thought I’d miss like missing limbs.
My dreams taste like cherry medicine and possibility, like my mother’s last lullaby and Mona’s manufactured chaos. I’m not sure which is more dangerous—the virus in my blood or the hope that someone’s finally found a way to turn Sterling precision against itself.