13. Cayenne
Chapter 13
Cayenne
The virus gives me strange dreams—binary code waterfalls and glitter tornadoes that seem to make perfect sense until I wake. This time, consciousness returns with the taste of Mona’s latest “improved formula, very precise measurements, minimal chance of hallucinations” still metallic on my tongue. The injection site on my arm throbs in time with my pulse, but the fog in my head has lifted enough to form coherent thoughts.
First thought, Finn is worse than I am.
Second thought, I need to do something about it.
Third thought, We have less than a week before we need to relocate to the safe house, and at this rate, Finn won’t be strong enough to move.
I push myself up from the couch where I’ve been stationed for monitoring, testing each muscle group with cautious precision. The fever still simmers under my skin, but it’s different now—more like background noise than the all-consuming fire of days past. Mona’s cocktail is actually working, at least enough to function.
My enhanced beta senses—another unexpected gift from the virus—pick up movement throughout the house. Distant footsteps pace the third floor—probably Ryker, his movements heavier with pre-rut tension as Theo’s heat approaches. My nose catches the change in scents too, Theo’s sweet vanilla deepening to something headier that even my beta biology can detect through multiple floors.
Speaking of my chaos-theory sister...
“You shouldn’t be vertical,” Mona announces from the doorway. Her clinical gaze sweeps over me, cataloging symptoms with that disturbing blend of scientific detachment and sisterly concern. “Your cellular regeneration requires approximately twelve more hours of horizontal rest. Very precise calculations. Much statistical certainty.”
“I’m fine.” I swing my legs over the edge, ignoring the room’s slight tilt. “How’s Finn?”
“Stable. Also unconscious. Much fever. Very concerning viral replication patterns.” She unwraps a lollipop with mechanical precision. “Though my updated treatment protocol is showing promising results. More data required. Also more candy.”
Her clinical assessment doesn’t quite hide the worry beneath. For all her calculated madness, Mona’s grown attached to the pack with surprising speed. I catch it in the slight tightness around her eyes, the way she keeps checking her Hello Kitty watch at precise intervals.
“So where is it?” I ask, forcing myself to stand. My legs wobble but hold.
Mona’s head tilts, that particular angle that says she’s trying to predict where my chaos will intersect with hers. “Where is what?”
“Whatever you need that you can’t get yourself.” I take a tentative step forward. “Come on, Mona. You’ve been pacing for the past hour. You keep checking that tablet. What’s missing from your mad scientist toolkit?”
For a moment, her mask slips—calculation replacing chaos. “Sterling’s secondary research facility holds specific viral samples. Very specialized. Much scientific value.” She produces her tablet from an impossibly small pocket. “Without them, vaccine development remains at suboptimal efficiency. Also, your beta has significantly less recovery probability.”
My heart stutters. “Less recovery probability. You mean?—”
“Death?” She considers the word like she’s tasting it. “Mm, no. More like prolonged suffering. Extensive neurological impact. Potentially permanent immunological compromise.” She catches my expression and adds, “So, worse than death. According to most subjective experience surveys. I have charts.”
“Tell me about the secondary facility.” I move toward the kitchen, my body demanding calories despite everything.
“Don’t you think you should?—”
“Mona.” I turn, meeting her calculating gaze head-on. “Finn is getting worse. You need something from Sterling’s lab. I’m feeling better. Do the math.”
A small smile curves her lips—genuine, not her usual performance art. “The math does yield interesting probabilities.” She follows me to the kitchen, tablet already displaying what looks like security schematics. “The secondary facility houses prototype variations. Very specialized research. Much genetic specificity.”
“And you need...” I prompt, rummaging for anything that might settle my still-uneasy stomach.
“These.” She pulls up molecular diagrams that mean nothing to me but clearly represent salvation to her. “Viral inhibitor compounds. Daddy developed them as a failsafe. Very precise application. Much scientific prudence.”
“He created an antidote before releasing the virus?” I grab an apple, the simple action requiring more concentration than it should.
“Not an antidote.” She rolls her eyes at my scientific imprecision. “A control mechanism. Daddy likes control. Very predictable psychological pattern. Much paternal overcompensation.”
Of course. Roman Sterling wouldn’t create a virus without ensuring he could control who lived and died. Precision and power—the Sterling family values.
“Where?” I take a bite, the sweetness almost too much after days of fever-dulled senses. My enhanced beta senses catch subtle flavor notes I’ve never detected before—hints of mineral and soil that tell stories of the orchard where it grew.
She slides the tablet toward me, security schematics filling the screen. “Coastal facility. Approximately thirty-seven minutes by car. Twenty-two by motorcycle. Very efficient transit options. Much reduced security compared to primary operations.”
“And you know this because...”
“I know everything about daddy’s operations.” She taps the screen, bringing up guard rotations. “Also, I have extensive digital access. And possibly some backdoors I installed while pretending to be incompetent with technology. For science.”
I study the layout, muscle memory from years of system infiltration kicking in. “Security protocols?”
“Standard biometric entry. Easily bypassed with daddy’s genetic material.” She gestures vaguely at me. “Congratulations, you’re a walking access key. Very convenient. Much biological advantage.”
The implications catch me off-guard. “You want me to break into Sterling’s lab?”
“Obviously.” She produces another lollipop from somewhere. “Your genetic markers are close enough to fool the primary authentication. The secondary requires actual skill. I have documentation of the system vulnerabilities. Very detailed. Much exploitation potential.”
I should say no. I should be sensible and continue resting and recovering. I should?—
The memory of Finn collapsing into my lap hits me like a system crash, his chess pieces scattering between us like broken possibilities.
“When do we leave?”
“We?” Mona’s genuine surprise breaks through her mask of calculated chaos. “Oh no, no, no. Highly inefficient team composition. Much increased failure probability.” She makes a dismissive gesture. “I don’t do fieldwork. Very messy. Much adrenaline-based decision-making. I prefer controlled environments. And candy.”
“Then who?—”
A low whistle from the doorway interrupts. Jinx leans against the frame, predatory interest written in every line of his body. “Sounds like fun.”
I should’ve known he’d be lurking. Jinx has a sixth sense for chaos in the making—probably why he and Mona get along so disturbingly well despite their surface antagonism.
“Were you eavesdropping?” I demand.
His grin is all teeth. “Always.”
“Perfect,” Mona declares, already typing on her tablet. “Alpha-beta team composition yields highest success probability. Very complementary skill sets. Much violence potential.” She glances up. “Though your feral one’s impulse control variables remain concerning. I have spreadsheets about optimal restraint-to-chaos ratios.”
“I’m right here,” Jinx reminds her, but there’s amusement rather than offense in his tone.
“Yes, and your enthusiasm for potential property damage is both statistically valid and psychologically concerning.” She hands him the tablet. “Security changes at 2200 hours. Optimal infiltration window lasts approximately twenty-seven minutes. Very precise timing requirements. Much coordination necessity.”
“What about Ryker?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Otherwise occupied.” Jinx’s expression shifts, something darker passing through his eyes. “Theo’s heat.”
“Pre-heat symptoms intensifying,” Mona corrects, clinical as ever. “Theo’s suppressants are failing at a fascinating rate. Very unexpected chemical breakdown. Much biochemical interest.” She unwraps another lollipop. “Full heat onset expected within forty-eight hours, but he’s already experiencing significant discomfort. I have research papers about omega suppression failure rates. Many research papers. Also extremely detailed diagrams. I also may have made him a cocktail to make it a wee bit longer.”
The reminder of what I’m going to miss if we don’t solve this sends an unexpected pang through me. Theo tried to wait—for me. And now his suppressants are failing, and I’m still barely functioning, and Finn is worse, and if I don’t do something, I might lose all of them without ever having truly belonged to any of them. The thought stabs through me like one of Alexander’s knives, sharp and precise.
“Here.” Jinx tosses me a leather jacket. “Might be a little big, but it’ll protect your skin if we go down.” His casual confidence cuts through my spiral. “Figured we’d take the Ducati. Fast in, fast out.”
“You planned this already?” I glance between him and Mona, suspicion blooming.
“I calculate probabilities,” Mona corrects. “He plans violence. Very different cognitive processes. Much specialized expertise.”
“You’re using us as lab rats,” I realize, watching her tap away at devices I can’t even identify. “This entire conversation was a test.”
“Obviously.” She doesn’t even look up. “Also strategic manipulation. Very effective. Much predictable response patterns.”
I should be angry, but there’s something almost comforting about Mona’s particular brand of manipulation—it’s so transparent in its calculations that it circles back around to honesty.
“Can you even ride?” Jinx asks, his gaze clinical as he assesses my still-shaky stance.
In answer, I grab the jacket and shrug it on. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to move. Mona’s provided us with enough gear to outfit a small tactical team—comms, security bypass tech, and what appears to be a disturbingly compact EMP device “for emergencies, very selective targeting, minimal collateral damage potential.”
“Your beta’s vitals will be monitored continuously,” she assures us, pressing one final injector into my hand. “This is my latest formulation. Very precise dosage. Much improved cognitiv?—”
“If you say very or much one more time, I’m stealing all your candy,” I warn, but the threat lacks heat.
A small, genuine smile quirks her lips. “Acceptable negotiation tactic. Well-defined boundaries. I approve.” She checks her watch. “Twenty-two minutes until optimal infiltration window. Timing is critical.”
As we head for the garage, I catch a glimpse of Ryker at the top of the stairs, his posture tense but resigned. Our eyes meet briefly, and something passes between us—acknowledgment, maybe. Trust, perhaps. He knows I’m doing this for Finn, for all of them. With a sharp nod, he disappears back into the shadows, returning to his omega who needs him more than we do right now.
Jinx’s arm slides around my waist as we continue toward the garage, his support hidden beneath casual contact. The gesture speaks volumes about how obvious my weakness must be. Still, I lean into his warmth, drawing strength from his steady presence.
The Ducati waits like a predator, sleek black lines promising speed and danger. Jinx swings a leg over, patting the seat behind him. “Hold tight, Glitch.”
I settle against him, arms circling his waist, my body remembering the last time we rode together—before everything went to hell, before Sterling Labs, before the virus.
As the engine roars to life, Jinx glances back, cherry tobacco and leather enveloping me. “Ready to raise some hell?”
For the first time in days, I feel something like my old self stirring beneath the virus’s weight. “Born ready.”
We tear into the night, the wind against my face both punishment and liberation. Each curve in the road tests my strength, forcing me to cling tighter to Jinx’s solid form. Through the comm link, Mona’s voice provides clinically precise directions, her usual chaos suspended for the sake of mission efficiency.
“Security patrol passes the east entrance in approximately seventy-three seconds,” she informs us as we approach the facility. “Maintain visual distancing until confirmation of rotation completion.”
The building rises from coastal darkness—a sleek, modern structure that screams “nothing suspicious happening here” in that way that immediately reads as “definitely suspicious things happening here” to anyone with sense. Unlike Sterling Labs’ main facility, this one masquerades as a pharmaceutical research center, complete with legitimate-looking branding.
“Approaching drop point,” Jinx murmurs as he cuts the engine, letting momentum carry us the final distance. The bike rolls silently into the shadows of a maintenance shed, exactly where Mona’s schematics indicated a blind spot in the security coverage.
“Security loop established,” Mona confirms through our earpieces. “Camera feed replaced with static recording. Very precise timing. Much technological finesse.”
I dismount carefully, testing my balance. The virus still simmers in my blood, but Mona’s latest injection has dulled its edges, leaving me functional if not quite at full strength. My enhanced beta senses pick up subtle details I’d normally miss—the distinct cadence of each guard’s footsteps, the slight ozone tang of the security systems, the barely perceptible hum of electronics behind concrete walls.
“Still with me?” Jinx’s hand finds mine in darkness, a grounding point.
“Always.” The word slips out before I can think better of it. Something shifts in his expression, but before he can respond, Mona’s voice cuts through.
“Biometric access panel approaching optimal vulnerability window. Proceed to south entrance. Maintain silence protocols.”
We move like shadows, years of training merging into perfect synchronization. My hacking instincts match his predatory grace, each of us anticipating the other’s movements without words. When we reach the access panel, I place my palm against the scanner before Jinx can stop me.
“Wait—” he starts, but the panel’s already turned green.
“Sterling genetics,” I explain, bitterness coloring the words. “One perk of being daddy’s little mistake.”
His fingers tighten around mine for a brief moment—silent support, shared rage—before we slip inside.
The interior is sterile white and chrome, identical to the main facility in its clinical coldness. We follow Mona’s directions through eerily empty hallways, our footsteps echoing despite our caution.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper.
“Night shift operates at seventeen percent standard personnel,” Mona supplies. “Most research staff departed approximately ninety-seven minutes ago. Remaining security concentrates on primary access points.”
“Too easy,” Jinx murmurs, that predatory smile stretching his lips. “Almost disappointing.”
I’m inclined to agree. Years of system infiltration have taught me that when security seems absent, it’s usually because it’s concentrated somewhere unexpected.
“Target location approaching,” Mona informs us. “Laboratory Seven requires secondary authentication. Genetic confirmation insufficient. Requires direct neural interface or approved access codes.”
“Neural interface?” I repeat. “What the hell is that?”
“Experimental technology. Connects directly to cerebral cortex through specialized implant.” Her voice carries genuine interest now, the scientist overtaking the chaos agent. “Daddy’s latest obsession. Very invasive. Much potential for abuse.”
“Great.” I study the door before us, noting the secondary scanner beside the standard access panel. “So we need a passcode.”
“Or a Sterling with the right implant.” Jinx’s gaze darkens. “Which we don’t have.”
I approach the panel, muscle memory taking over as I pull out Mona’s bypass device. “Let’s see if Sterling programming is as predictable as Sterling himself.”
The device connects seamlessly, its small screen displaying scrolling code as it attempts to breach the system. I watch patterns form and dissolve, my mind breaking them down into attack vectors and vulnerability explorations.
“Security patrol approaching eastern corridor,” Mona warns. “Estimated arrival at your position in forty-seven seconds.”
Jinx moves instantly, positioning himself between me and the approaching threat. His body coils with predatory anticipation, that dangerous smile spreading across his face.
“Keep working,” he instructs. “I’ll handle them.”
“Jinx—”
“Trust me.” Those two words—so simple, so loaded—hang between us.
Trust. Such a fragile thing when you’ve spent your life hacking systems and disappearing. When your default is always run, never stay. When every instinct screams that relying on someone else means inevitable betrayal. And yet...
I do trust him. Not just with my life, but with something more precious—with my vulnerability. With the knowledge that the virus has left me operating at half capacity. With my fear for Finn and for the pack. With every broken edge I’ve spent years hiding behind firewalls and sarcasm.
And the strange thing? It doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like strength, like connection, like finding a missing line of code that suddenly makes everything function properly.
I give him a sharp nod.
The bypass device beeps, drawing my attention back to our primary mission. The scrolling code has stabilized, revealing a predictable pattern in Sterling’s security algorithm. Of course—Roman’s brilliant but arrogant mind wouldn’t conceive of anyone understanding his systems well enough to break them. Especially not his illegitimate beta daughter.
“I’ve got it,” I murmur, fingers flying over the interface. “Just need to modify the authentication protocol to accept external validation without?—”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. Two sets, maybe three.
“Time’s up,” Jinx whispers, his body already shifting into combat stance. “How much longer?”
“Thirty seconds. Maybe less.” My hands remain steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “Just keep them off me.”
“With pleasure.” The predatory anticipation in his voice would be disturbing if it weren’t so perfectly matched to the moment.
The first guard rounds the corner, weapon already drawn. Jinx moves like liquid shadow, all that barely contained violence finally finding purpose. I keep my focus on the bypass, trusting him completely as sounds of combat erupt behind me.
The device beeps again—success. The door slides open just as Jinx dispatches the second guard with brutal efficiency.
“Come on!” I call, already moving into the lab.
Inside, the space is an unsettling blend of cutting-edge technology and old-school medical horrors. Glass containment units line one wall, each holding samples labeled with precise Sterling methodology. Workstations display molecular structures in rotating 3D, while medical equipment of uncertain purpose fills the remaining space.
“Target location identified,” Mona confirms in my ear. “Proceed to containment unit seven. Viral inhibitor compounds stored in cryogenic suspension.”
I follow her directions, locating the specified unit while Jinx secures the door. The samples inside glow with faint bioluminescence, their labels featuring that distinctive Sterling Labs marking.
“Got them.” I reach for the release mechanism, then pause. “Wait, are these dangerous to handle?”
“Minimal risk with proper containment,” Mona assures me. “Storage capsules are designed for field transport. Very secure engineering. Much safety consideration.”
“That’s not actually reassuring.” But I trigger the release anyway, watching as the system ejects a sleek metal case.
Jinx appears at my side, blood that isn’t his staining his knuckles. “We need to move. Now.”
“More guards?”
“Security alert triggered.” Mona’s voice turns sharp with urgency. “Multiple response teams converging on your location. Estimated arrival in three minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”
I grab the case, securing it inside the pack Mona provided.
As I turn to leave, something else catches my eye—a workstation displaying what appears to be genetic sequencing data. The label at the top reads Project Designation: Recoding.
“What the hell is this?” I move closer, recognizing elements of the code scrolling across the screen. The data shows designation markers—alpha, beta, omega—but with something different. Instead of distinct genetic categories, I’m seeing deliberate modification patterns, transition vectors between designation types.
“Unknown research protocol,” Mona responds. “Not in my database. Potential secondary project.”
“It’s genetic programming,” I realize, scanning the data. “They’re trying to rewrite designation at the molecular level. Not just modifying symptoms like the virus does—this is about complete transformation. Beta to omega. Alpha to beta. They’re trying to make designation fluid, controllable.” A sickening thought hits me. “Or weaponized.”
My enhanced beta senses detect something strange about the neural patterns displayed—almost like they’re designed to interface with an implant similar to what Alexander has. A way to control the designation changes remotely, perhaps?
“Later,” Jinx insists, pulling me away from the terminal. “We need to go.”
I hesitate, hacker instincts warring with survival needs. Then I pull out my phone, quickly capturing images of the display. “Okay. Let’s move.”
We exit the lab to find the corridor already filling with guards—at least six of them, moving with military precision. Jinx pushes me behind him, that feral grin spreading across his face.
“Eight against two,” he muses, cracking his knuckles. “Hardly seems fair.”
“For them,” I agree, dropping into the fighting stance Alexander unwittingly taught me through days of torture. My body remembers every blow, every weakness Mona mapped out with candy and clinical precision.
“When I move, head for the east exit,” Jinx murmurs, his body coiling for attack.
But I’m already moving, targeting the guard Mona would identify as most vulnerable—left shoulder slightly higher than right, weight distribution favoring his dominant side. I strike with Sterling precision, finding the exact point Mona described with Skittles on a concrete floor.
The guard drops, surprised shock painting his features as his knees buckle.
Jinx’s laugh carries notes of genuine delight as he launches into his own attack, taking down two guards with movements too fast to track. We move in perfect synchronization, each of us anticipating the other’s actions without words. His feral chaos complements my calculated precision, creating a harmony of violence that leaves our opponents reeling.
When one guard manages to grab me from behind, I don’t panic. Don’t struggle. My vision tunnels momentarily, the virus surging in response to the exertion. The world tilts sickeningly before snapping back into focus. I push through the vertigo, finding that perfect spot behind his left ear—forty-three seconds of disorientation, just like Mona promised—and drive my elbow into it with all my remaining strength.
The movement sends fire racing through my muscles, a reminder that Mona’s injection is wearing off faster than expected. Something wet trickles down my nose—blood, I realize distantly. My body’s fighting both the guard and the virus, neither battle completely winnable.
The guard’s grip loosens as his equilibrium fails, giving me the opening to twist free and deliver a precise strike to the junction of neck and shoulder. My hand trembles with the effort, muscles spasming erratically, but the blow lands true. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings while I fight to stay upright, swallowing the metallic taste that floods my mouth.
“Nice moves, Glitch,” Jinx calls, dispatching his final opponent with brutal efficiency. “Where’d you learn those?”
“Family bonding,” I reply, the dark humor not lost on either of us. “Turns out my sister is really good at creating anatomically correct models out of Skittles. Very educational. Much homicidal potential.”
His laugh echoes through the corridor, genuine amusement lighting his features. “You’re starting to sound like her.”
“I know. Terrifying, right? Next thing you know, I’ll be diagramming the structural weaknesses of government buildings with licorice and writing manifestos on candy wrappers.”
More footsteps approach—reinforcements arriving faster than Mona predicted.
“Exit route compromised,” her voice confirms in our ears. “Seeking alternatives. Calculating optimal escape vectors.”
“No time.” I grab Jinx’s hand, pulling him toward a maintenance corridor I spotted on Mona’s schematics. “This way.”
We sprint through narrow passages, the sound of pursuit growing more distant with each turn. The virus burns hotter with exertion, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but I push through. Finn needs these samples. The pack needs me functioning. Nothing else matters.
“Through here,” I direct, pushing open an emergency exit that should trigger alarms but remains silent—Mona’s work, no doubt.
The night air hits like a blessing and a curse, cool against my fever-hot skin but filled with the scent of more guards approaching. The Ducati waits where we left it, our escape just yards away.
“Almost there,” Jinx encourages, his arm around my waist supporting more of my weight than I’d like to admit. “Think you can parkour your way to the bike if I create a distraction?”
The question sends a flood of memories—sunset on the roof of the mansion, his patient instruction as I learned to move my body through space rather than just reckless abandon. The hours spent teaching me to fall safely, to roll with impact, to find footholds where none seemed to exist.
“What, you think one little virus can make me forget how to fly?” I manage a grin despite the exhaustion. “I’d be offended if I wasn’t so busy being awesome.”
His answering laugh carries that edge of feral delight that always sends electricity down my spine. “That’s my Glitch.”
We’re halfway to the bike when floodlights suddenly illuminate the area, turning night to artificial day. Vehicles screech to a halt, blocking our path as armed men pour out, weapons trained on us.
“End of the line,” a familiar voice calls. Alexander emerges from the lead vehicle, his perfect features twisted in cruel satisfaction. “Hello, sisters.”
My blood runs cold. “How did you?—”
“Tracker in the bypass device,” he explains, tapping his temple. “Mona’s not the only one who plans ahead.”
Beside me, Jinx goes deadly still, that particular calm that precedes his most violent storms. I place a hand on his arm—a warning, a request for patience.
“Jinx,” I murmur, “the samples. Get them to Mona.”
His gaze snaps to mine, understanding and refusal warring in his expression. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to.” I squeeze his arm. “Finn needs those samples.”
The struggle in his eyes would be beautiful if it weren’t so heartbreaking—his feral need to protect me battling with the strategic reality that someone needs to complete the mission.
“Give me the bypass,” he finally says, his voice dropping to ensure only I can hear. “It’s what they’re tracking.”
I hand it over silently, our fingers brushing in the exchange. Something passes between us—a promise, a connection deeper than words.
“Touching,” Alexander calls, his tone mocking. “But ultimately futile. You’re surrounded.”
I turn to face my brother, stepping forward to put myself between him and Jinx. “What’s the matter, Alexander? Daddy send you to clean up another mess?”
His jaw tightens—the first tell Mona identified, the one that says I’ve hit a nerve. “Always so clever. But cleverness won’t save you this time.”
I take another step forward, drawing his attention fully to me. Behind me, I can feel Jinx shifting, preparing for whatever crazy plan is forming in his mind.
“You know what your problem is, big brother?” I continue, channeling Mona’s calculated chaos. “You think you’re daddy’s perfect alpha, but we all know the truth.”
His eyes narrow. “And what truth is that?”
“You’re just another experiment. Another variable he’s tracking.” I tap my temple, mimicking his earlier gesture. “Did he tell you about the neural implant? About what it’s really for?”
Something unexpected flickers across his face—not just uncertainty, but a flash of real fear. For a split second, his hand moves toward his own temple, a gesture so unconscious he doesn’t seem aware of making it. I catch a glimpse of a tiny scar just below his hairline, barely visible in the harsh lights.
He’s not just afraid of what I might know—he’s afraid I might be right.
The vulnerability vanishes instantly, armor slamming back into place as he signals his men forward. Behind me, Jinx has edged closer to the shadows.
“You’re stalling,” Alexander realizes, signaling his men forward. “Take them.”
The guards advance, weapons raised. I drop into fighting stance, preparing for a battle I can’t possibly win. But winning isn’t the point. Distraction is.
The first guard reaches me, and I strike with all the precision Mona mapped out with candy—that sweet spot under the jaw that temporarily disrupts neural signals. He drops like a stone. The second gets a knee to a precise point on his thigh, collapsing his leg from under him.
Behind me, I catch the distinctive sound of the Ducati’s engine roaring to life, followed by shouts of alarm as Jinx tears through the darkness, the bypass device flying in the opposite direction.
Alexander’s attention splits—just for a second, but enough. I use his moment of distraction to drive my fist into that perfect weak spot behind his left ear, the one Mona demonstrated with Skittles and clinical precision.
Forty-three seconds of disorientation. Just like she promised.
He staggers, equilibrium failing as his neural pathways temporarily scramble. It won’t last long—Sterling recovery rates are unfortunately impressive—but it doesn’t need to. Just long enough.
I spin toward the remaining guards, dropping another with a precise strike to the solar plexus. My body moves on muscle memory now, each blow targeted to points Mona mapped out during our strange sisterly bonding sessions.
Sterling fighting techniques—precision, calculation, exact application of force. I am my father’s daughter after all.
But not in the way he intended.
Alexander recovers faster than expected, his hand closing around my wrist with bruising force. “Enough games.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” I drive my knee up, finding that old injury Mona described—the one she gave him on marble stairs at eleven years old. The one that never quite healed right.
He howls as his knee buckles, grip loosening just enough for me to twist free. I sprint toward the forest line, every muscle screaming in protest as the virus rages hotter with exertion.
Bullets kick up dirt at my heels, but I don’t slow, don’t look back. Trust Jinx to complete the mission. Trust Mona’s calculations. Trust the pack to come for me if I can’t escape.
Trust. Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.
The forest swallows me into darkness, branches whipping past as I push deeper into cover. My lungs burn, each breath a struggle against virus-weakened tissues. But I push on, driven by the need to put distance between myself and Sterling’s hunters.
“Position?” Mona’s voice in my ear startles me. I’d forgotten the comms in the chaos.
“Forest,” I gasp. “East of facility. Alexander?—”
“Is tracking standard pursuit patterns,” she completes. “Very predictable movement protocols. Much tactical inefficiency.” Her voice shifts, that clinical detachment giving way to something almost like concern. “Jinx’s signal detected returning to your coordinates. His diversion with the device was temporarily successful. Maintain evasive protocols for approximately three hundred meters.”
I push forward, each step requiring more effort than the last as the virus surges in response to stress and exertion. My vision blurs at the edges, the forest dissolving into smears of shadow and moonlight.
Behind me, I hear dogs—because of course Alexander would bring combat hounds to complete the Sterling hunting party aesthetic. Their baying carries through night air, primal and terrifying.
“They have dogs,” I inform Mona, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Expected.” She doesn’t sound concerned. “Counter-measures deployed. Very effective pheromone dispersal. Much canine confusion.”
Sure enough, the baying shifts, becoming disorganized and distant. Whatever Mona deployed, it’s working.
I spot a fallen tree ahead, and something in my virus-hazed brain clicks into place. Parkour instinct takes over—I visualize the move before executing it, just like Jinx taught me. Run up incline, twist, flip, land. Use the height advantage to spot pursuit. Simple.
Except my body isn’t operating at full capacity.
I make it up the incline and manage the twist, but my landing goes sideways. I crash hard, rolling awkwardly instead of the smooth dismount I’ve practiced a hundred times on the mansion’s roof. The impact drives what little air remains from my lungs, leaving me gasping on the forest floor. Every cell screams for rest, for surrender, for an end to this punishing flight.
“Get up,” I wheeze to myself. “Get the fuck up.”
My body refuses to comply, the virus finally exacting its toll for my recklessness. Black spots dance across my vision, consciousness fading at the edges.
“Cayenne?” Mona’s voice grows distant through the roaring in my ears. “Status update required. Cayenne?”
The darkness reaches for me with comforting arms, promising relief from pain, from fear, from the burning in my blood. It would be so easy to give in, to let go, to rest.
Just for a minute. Just...
The scent hits me first—gunpowder and leather, cherry tobacco and sin. Then strong arms close around me, lifting me from the forest floor like I weigh nothing. Jinx crouches beside me, those feral eyes scanning for injuries.
“Points for style on that dismount, Glitch, but your landing needs work,” he says, his attempt at humor belied by the concern radiating from him.
“Critics... everyone’s a critic,” I manage to rasp. “Didn’t exactly... stick the landing.”
He gathers me closer, one arm supporting my back, the other sliding under my knees. “I got you,” he murmurs against my hair. “I got you.”
“The samples,” I manage, fighting to stay conscious.
“Safe.” His grip tightens as he navigates through darkness. “Sent them with Theo’s contact from Sanctuary. They’re already on their way to Mona.”
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by confusion. “You came back.”
“Always will.” The simple truth in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. “Pack means nobody runs alone.”
I want to respond, to thank him, to say any of the thousand things burning in my throat. But the virus surges again, dragging me toward darkness with greedy hands. As my consciousness fades, I think of all of them—Jinx carrying me through darkness, Finn fighting the same virus that’s consuming me, Theo enduring pre-heat discomfort while waiting for me,
As my consciousness fades, I think of all of them—Jinx carrying me through darkness, Finn fighting the same virus that’s consuming me, Theo enduring pre-heat discomfort while waiting for me, Ryker coordinating our relocation with less than a week remaining. And Mona, calculating probabilities with candy and chaos.
For the first time in my life, I’m not just running toward safety—I’m running home. To my pack. To all of them.
The last thing I register is Jinx’s voice in my ear, fierce with promise:
“Hold on, Glitch. Just hold on.”
Then nothing but merciful black.