20. Cayenne
Chapter 20
Cayenne
“I’m going to lose my mind,” Jinx announces to no one in particular, pacing the family room like a tiger in an entirely too small cage. He flicks a zippo lighter open and closed, the metallic snap punctuating each turn. “Seriously. Actual, literal insanity. Like, padded cell, straightjacket, the whole deal.”
Summer has arrived with conspicuous enthusiasm outside our windows—sunshine and birdsong and actual goddamn flowers blooming—while inside, we’re still living in a pressure cooker of training sessions, vaccine monitoring, and mission planning. Three days since becoming Mona’s first human trial, and the walls of the mansion are closing in on all of us.
“Your sanity ship sailed long ago,” Finn observes from his position on the couch The virus has stabilized in his system, leaving him pale but functional—a vast improvement over the fever-wracked shell he was two weeks ago. His color is even returning, though he still tires easily, a fact he tries to hide with limited success.
Though I’ve noticed something concerning over the last twelve hours—occasional moments where he seems to lose focus, his breathing catching subtly when he thinks no one is watching. The improvement from Mona’s vaccine seems to be plateauing, maybe even reversing. I’ve caught her watching him with scientific calculation when she thinks no one is looking, and the worry beneath her chaos mask tells me everything I need to know.
“Not helping,” Jinx grumbles, doing another lap around the coffee table, thumb striking sparks from the zippo with each pass. “We need to do something. Anything. I’m dying of boredom. Actually dying. I can feel my cells giving up. They’re writing little suicide notes in mitochondrial ink.”
“We could train,” Ryker suggests, not looking up from his tablet where he’s reviewing security footage for the Aurora Facility for the hundredth time. The harsh blue light carves shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look more machine than man.
“If I have to run one more combat drill, I’m going to set something important on fire,” Jinx threatens, holding up his lighter like Exhibit A. “Possibly myself. Starting with my hair. It’d be spectacular.”
“Indoor voice,” Theo murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his pre-heat headache management. He’s been fighting it for weeks now, the symptoms subtle but unmistakable to anyone who knows what to look for—increased sensitivity to sound, slight temperature fluctuation, that particular restlessness that has him rearranging throw pillows every few hours.
“We could play chess,” Finn offers, ever the problem solver.
“No offense to your very sexy brain,” Jinx replies, “but if I have to watch you and Glitch have another four-hour strategic foreplay session over tiny carved pieces, I might actually cry. Like, full-on mascara-running, snot-dripping emotional breakdown.”
I snort from my position by the window, where I’ve been watching summer happen like it’s a particularly riveting Netflix series. The vaccine hasn’t hit me with any major side effects yet, just occasional flashes of heat that ripple through me at unpredictable intervals, like my body momentarily forgetting which frequency it’s supposed to operate on. Each flash is followed by bursts of restless energy that make me want to either run ten miles or dismantle and rebuild a computer.
Mona calls it “very normal immunological response, much biological productivity, excellent adaptive integration.”
I call it being microwaved from the inside out while someone randomly hits the defrost button.
“What about the pool?” The suggestion slips out before I fully process it, inspired by the sunlight glinting off the covered in-ground pool visible from my window. “We could open it. Clean it up. It’s warm enough.”
Four pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of surprise and interest.
“The pool’s been closed since last fall,” Ryker says, but I detect a hint of consideration beneath his practical objection. The tactical wheels are already turning, calculating effort versus reward.
“Hence the clean it up part of my suggestion,” I counter, already warming to the idea. It’s physical. It’s productive. It’s not training or planning or waiting for Mona’s next round of tests. “Come on, we’ve been cooped up for weeks with nothing but Sterling and viruses and mission parameters. We need something normal.”
“Swimming is good physical therapy,” Finn adds, fingers tapping out recovery calculations against his thigh. “Low impact, full range of motion. Optimal muscle engagement without strain.”
“I could help,” Theo says quietly, and something about his simple offer breaks the dam of resistance. We all hear what he’s not saying—that he needs a distraction from his suppressed heat as much as Jinx needs a break from four walls.
“Fine,” Ryker concedes, setting his tablet aside. “Pool maintenance it is.”
Jinx whoops like we’ve just authorized a Vegas weekend rather than basic summer cleaning. He snaps the zippo closed and tosses it onto the coffee table. “Operation Cannonball is a go! I’ll get the chemicals from the shed!”
“No unsupervised access to chemicals!” Finn calls after him, but our chaos alpha is already halfway out the door, moving with the boundless energy of a prison break in progress.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t create anything explosive,” Ryker sighs, following Jinx with the resigned expression of someone who’s prevented property damage one too many times.
Which leaves me with Finn and Theo, both watching me with expressions that suggest I’ve unlocked something they didn’t realize they needed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I protest, but there’s no heat in it. “It’s just a pool.”
“It’s normal,” Theo says simply, rising with that fluid grace that never quite abandons him, even battling suppressants. “We could use a little normal.”
“I’ll get the maintenance manual,” Finn offers, already reaching for his tablet. “There’s a specific protocol for reopening after winter closure.”
“Of course there is,” I mutter, but follow them both toward the pool area, a lightness in my step that’s been missing for days.
The pool area sits in a sheltered courtyard, glass walls providing shelter from mountain winds while still offering panoramic views of forest and sky. It’s beautiful, or at least it would be if not currently covered by a tarp that’s seen better days, surrounded by furniture draped in drop cloths like ghosts of summer past.
“Wow,” I observe, taking in the dust and neglect. The air tastes stale, abandoned, a time capsule of last year’s forgotten leisure. “This is going to be a project.”
“We didn’t exactly have time for pool parties last year,” Finn notes, already scrolling through the maintenance procedures. “Not with the Omega Guardian situation and then your arrival.”
“And now we’re opening it in spite of a beta virus pandemic and an imminent mission to destroy a production facility,” I point out, the absurdity of our priorities suddenly striking me. “We’re very well-adjusted.”
“Speak for yourself,” Theo says, already stripping covers from the patio furniture. “I’ve never claimed to be well-adjusted.”
“Fair point.”
Jinx bursts into the area with his arms full of pool chemicals, Ryker following with a more reasonable selection of cleaning supplies. The manic energy radiating off our chaos alpha would be concerning in any other context, but right now, it feels perfectly aligned with the task at hand.
“Alright, troops,” he announces, dropping his chemical haul on a poolside table with a clatter that makes Theo wince. “Operation Cannonball requires strategic distribution of forces. Finn, you’re on chemical duty because I trust you not to accidentally create chlorine gas. Ryker, your muscles are required for heavy lifting. Theo, aesthetics and organization because you’re the only one with taste. Glitch—” he turns to me with unholy glee “—you’re with me on tarp removal and initial cleaning because I suspect you’re secretly a chaos goblin under all that calculated precision.”
“Chaos goblin?” I repeat, caught between offense and amusement.
“Own it,” he advises, already moving toward the pool cover with determined purpose. “Embrace the goblin within. Let her wreak havoc. She’s been trapped too long.”
Despite the ridiculousness of Jinx’s command structure, we fall into our assigned tasks with surprising efficiency. Finn settles at a table with chemicals and testing kits, measuring with the same precision he brings to chess. Ryker moves patio furniture with methodical purpose, reconfiguring the space according to Theo’s artistic direction. And I find myself knee-deep in musty tarp and winter debris alongside Jinx, whose enthusiasm for destruction makes him the perfect partner for the messiest part of the job.
“So,” Jinx says casually as we wrestle with a particularly stubborn section of cover, “how’s the vaccine treating you? And don’t give me Mona’s scientific gobbledygook. Real answer.”
The direct question catches me off guard. “Mostly fine,” I admit, tugging at a corner that’s somehow become one with the pool deck. The tarp shreds beneath my fingers, releasing a puff of mildew that makes my nose wrinkle. “Occasional hot flashes. Brief dizzy spells. Nothing major.”
“Mona says you’re exceeding expectations,” he comments, using brute strength where my precision approach fails. “Whatever that means in crazy scientist language.”
“It means I’m producing antibodies at a higher rate than predicted,” I translate, grateful for his help as the section finally comes free with a sound like Velcro ripping. “Which is good news for potential mass production.”
“And for keeping you alive,” he adds, the casual tone not quite hiding genuine concern. “Which is my primary interest.”
“I’m fine, Jinx,” I assure him, touched by the care beneath his chaotic exterior. “Really.”
“Better be,” he grumbles, already attacking the next section with renewed vigor. “I’ve got plans that require you in full working order.”
“Do I want to know what these plans involve?”
His grin turns positively wicked. “Probably not. But they’re very entertaining. Possibly illegal in several states.” He leans closer, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Involves you, me, Theo’s piano, and those little shorts you wear to training. The black ones that make your ass look like sin incarnate.”
“Jesus, Jinx.” I shove at his shoulder, but heat crawls up my neck despite myself.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone else thinks.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “Besides, I haven’t even told you about the part with the handcuffs.”
“Comforting.”
Across the pool, Theo arranges cushions with the focused attention he brings to everything, but I notice the slight tremor in his hands, the occasional pause to steady himself. When our eyes meet, he offers a small smile that doesn’t quite hide the strain around its edges.
“How long do you think he can keep this up?” I ask Jinx quietly, angling my body to block Theo’s view of our conversation.
Jinx’s expression sobers immediately. “Not much longer. Aria and Mona’s medical-grade suppressants are good, but his system’s fighting back harder each day. I can smell it changing, like summer before a thunderstorm.”
“He’s pushing himself too far,” I observe, though I understand why he’s doing it.
“For you and Finn,” Jinx says simply, no teasing in his voice now. “He wants to wait until you’re both fully recovered. Part of the pack again. All of us together.”
The concern evident in Jinx’s tone matches my own growing worry. Theo’s been fighting his biology for weeks now, and the strain is becoming more visible daily.
“We’ve tried talking to him about it,” Jinx continues, already returning to the tarp with determined focus. “Multiple times. With increasing volume.”
I glance over at Finn, who meets my gaze with knowing eyes. He’s been watching Theo too, cataloging symptoms with the same methodical care he brings to everything.
“We’ve got maybe two more days before the suppressants fail completely,” Finn says when I join him under the guise of checking chemical levels. “Mona said they’re designed for short-term delay, not complete prevention.”
“His symptoms are getting worse every day,” I note, concern tightening my chest as I watch Theo carefully arrange cushions with hands that tremble more noticeably now.
“Only that he wants to wait until we are fully recovered.” Finn’s lips quirk in a small, fond smile. “He’s rather determined on the subject.”
“Stubborn,” I correct, though affection colors the word. “All of you are.”
“Pot, kettle,” Finn responds without heat. “Besides, it’s important to him. Having the full pack together for his heat.”
The implication warms something in my chest—that I’m considered essential to this most intimate pack experience, that my presence matters enough for Theo to delay his biological imperative.
“I need to talk to him,” I decide, already moving toward where our omega has created a perfectly arranged seating area, each cushion and table positioned with artistic precision.
“Need help?” I offer, settling beside him on a newly uncovered lounger.
“Just finishing,” he says, adjusting a throw pillow with a focus that suggests it’s distracting him from physical discomfort. “Your idea was good. Being outside helps.”
“Theo,” I start, then pause, searching for the right approach. “I’m worried about you. The suppressants... you’ve been on them too long.”
His hands still momentarily before resuming their careful arrangement. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It seems like a very big deal when your hands are shaking and you’re getting tension headaches,” I counter, gentle but firm. “You don’t need to push yourself this hard. Not for us.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and serious. “You’ve been through enough—the virus, the vaccine, the mission planning. I wanted to wait until you were stronger.”
“So you’re just suffering in silence? Very omega of you.”
The teasing draws a reluctant smile. “Force of habit.” His gaze shifts to where Ryker and Jinx are now successfully removing the last of the tarp, revealing murky pool water beneath. “It’s important to me,” he admits quietly. “Having everyone there. Having you there. The first heat with a complete pack...”
“I’m honored,” I tell him, meaning it completely. “But not at the cost of your health. You don’t need to push yourself to the breaking point. I’m already part of this pack, heat or no heat.”
“I know.” His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. “But some things matter beyond rationality. This is one of them.”
Before I can respond, a triumphant shout from Jinx announces the complete removal of the pool cover. He stands at the edge, surveying the murky water with the satisfaction of a general contemplating a conquered territory.
“Phase one complete!” he declares. “Now for the real fun—draining and scrubbing!”
“Your definition of fun remains disturbing,” Finn observes, joining us with his tablet of chemical protocols.
“Life’s all about perspective,” Jinx counters, already stripping off his shirt in preparation for what will undoubtedly be the messiest part of the job. The movement reveals the tattoos that map his back—a constellation of scars transformed into art by Theo’s careful hand.
Both Theo and I can’t help but stare as he stretches, muscles shifting beneath inked skin. Even half-feral and completely chaotic, there’s something magnetic about him—some primal force that draws the eye. Jinx catches our synchronized appreciation and grins, running his hands down his chest with theatrical slowness.
“See something you like?” he taunts, flexing unnecessarily.
“Just wondering how someone with your body fat percentage can have so much energy,” I retort, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that I haven’t looked away.
“He’s actually enjoying this,” I marvel, watching as Ryker similarly prepares for pool cleaning duty.
“Jinx finds joy in strange places,” Theo says fondly. “It’s one of his better qualities.”
The next few hours pass in a blur of physical labor that feels refreshingly different from combat training or mission preparation. Draining the pool requires a surprising amount of engineering knowledge, which Finn provides from his position as technical supervisor. Cleaning the exposed surfaces means teamwork and coordination, with Jinx and Ryker handling the heaviest parts while Theo and I manage detail work.
By mid-afternoon, we’re all pleasantly exhausted, covered in various degrees of pool grime, but the concrete basin gleams with promise, ready for refilling. We collapse on the newly arranged patio furniture, passing around water bottles and admiring our handiwork.
“Not bad for a day’s work,” Ryker observes, satisfaction evident despite his usual restraint.
“We should celebrate once it’s filled,” Jinx suggests, sprawled across a lounger with characteristic lack of spatial boundaries. “Actual swimming. Maybe a barbecue. Something that doesn’t involve tactical planning or medical testing.”
“That sounds...” Finn searches for the right word, “normal.”
“Exactly,” I agree, surprised by how appealing the concept of normality has become. “We could use some normal.”
“The water will take overnight to fill and treat,” Finn calculates, already planning logistics. “So tomorrow evening, potentially.”
“Perfect,” Theo decides, looking more relaxed than he has in days despite the physical exertion. “I’ll handle food.”
“And I’ll handle the fun,” Jinx volunteers, which immediately raises alarm bells.
“Defined as?” Ryker questions, justifiably wary. Even with Sterling’s threats temporarily sidelined, our alpha never fully relaxes his vigilance.
“Nothing illegal,” Jinx assures him, which is notably not a reassurance at all. “Probably. Though I reserve the right to skinny dip after midnight.”
“You do that and I’m doubling the chlorine,” Ryker warns, though the threat lacks conviction.
As the conversation devolves into good-natured bickering about what constitutes appropriate pool party activities, I find myself struck by the simple domesticity of the moment. Five broken people, covered in pool cleaning residue, planning a barbecue like the world isn’t falling apart around us. Like my father isn’t orchestrating beta genocide and Mona isn’t racing to perfect a vaccine before it’s too late.
It should feel wrong—this pocket of normalcy amid catastrophe. Instead, it feels necessary. Essential. A reminder of what we’re fighting for, beyond mere survival.
“You okay?” Finn asks quietly, noticing my momentary retreat into thought.
“Yeah,” I assure him, finding it surprisingly true. “Just thinking that this is nice. Being normal for a minute.”
“Normal is relative,” he observes with that problem-solver’s focus that never quite turns off. “Especially for us.”
“True.” I gesture to our unlikely family unit—feral alpha, tactical leader, artistic omega, analytical beta, and whatever category I fall into these days. “We’re not exactly the Brady Bunch.”
“The who?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“Never mind. Before your time.” I bump his shoulder gently with mine. “How are you feeling, really? The vaccine seems to be working, but...”
“Better,” he says simply, no flourish needed. “The fever’s gone. Energy’s returning. Mona says the virus is receding, not just stabilizing.”
Relief floods through me—genuine, unrestrained happiness that feels almost foreign after weeks of controlled crisis management. “That’s... that’s really good news.”
“It is.” His smile carries no reservations, just quiet joy. “Mona’s vaccine works, Cayenne. It actually works.”
The implication settles between us—that my risk, my choice to be Mona’s first human trial, is already paying dividends beyond my own survival. That Finn’s improvement suggests hope for thousands of others.
“Now we just need to mass-produce it,” I muse, the logistical challenges momentarily overshadowed by the simple victory of seeing color in Finn’s cheeks again.
“One step at a time,” he advises, ever the chess player thinking multiple moves ahead. “First, we fill the pool. Then we swim. Then we save the world.”
“Solid plan.”
As evening approaches, we finally drag ourselves inside for showers and food, the promise of tomorrow’s pool party creating an atmosphere of anticipation that’s been missing from the mansion for too long. The relief of having a project unrelated to Sterling or viruses or mission parameters—something simple, achievable, and purely for enjoyment—has lifted everyone’s spirits.
After my shower, I seek out Theo, finding him in the kitchen already planning tomorrow’s menu with characteristic attention to detail. The tension hasn’t disappeared from his shoulders, but it’s lessened considerably, as though the day’s normalcy provided some relief even from biological imperatives.
“Need help?” I offer, leaning against the counter beside him.
“Just making a shopping list,” he says, glancing up with a smile that reaches his eyes for the first time in days. “Apparently everyone has very specific requests for their ideal barbecue menu.”
“Let me guess—Jinx wants everything spicy enough to classify as a weapon.”
“Naturally.” He adds another item to his list with elegant script. “And Finn has precise specifications about potato salad ingredients that suggest previous trauma.”
“What about you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What’s your ideal barbecue food?”
He considers this with surprising seriousness. “Fresh bread,” he says finally. “The kind that’s still warm when you tear it apart. Reminds me of my grandmother’s kitchen, before... everything.”
The glimpse into his past—rare from our usually private omega—feels like a gift. “I can help with that. I make a decent focaccia.”
His eyes widen with surprise. “You bake?”
“Don’t act so shocked,” I laugh, nudging his shoulder playfully. “I might be a world-class hacker, but I also stress-bake when things go sideways. It’s like coding but with carbs.”
“Apparently.” His smile turns thoughtful. “What other hidden talents are you harboring, Cayenne Sterling?”
“If I told you, they wouldn’t be hidden,” I deflect, secretly hoping he eventually figures it out.
As I help him complete the shopping plans, a wave of warmth washes through me—one of the vaccine’s occasional side effects, but manageable. With it comes a subtle change in my scent, a temporary spike that makes Theo’s nostrils flare with immediate recognition.
“Another one?” he asks, concern evident.
“Just a flash,” I assure him. “Mona says it’s normal. Part of the immune response.”
His hand finds my forehead with innate caretaking instinct, touch cool against my temporarily heated skin. “Not too high,” he confirms, but doesn’t immediately withdraw his hand. The contact lingers, comfort rather than clinical assessment.
“I’m fine,” I promise, leaning slightly into his touch despite myself. “You’re the one I’m worried about.”
“Don’t be.” His smile turns rueful. “I’ve managed heats alone for years. A few more days of suppressants won’t kill me.”
“But they’re not comfortable.”
“Few worthwhile things are.” His hand finally drops, but he stays close, the kitchen island a barrier between us that somehow feels more symbolic than physical.
“Theo—”
“It’s my choice,” he interrupts gently but firmly. “Just like the vaccine was yours. We all take risks for what matters.”
The simple truth of it silences any further argument. He’s right, of course. We each make our sacrifices, choose our discomforts, for the things—the people—that matter most.
“Fine,” I concede. “But if the headaches get worse, promise you’ll let Mona help. She probably has something that would make the suppressants more manageable.”
“I promise.” The solemnity in his voice suggests he understands the importance of the request—that my concern comes from care rather than doubt about his choices.
The moment stretches between us, something unspoken but significant in the quiet kitchen with evening settling beyond the windows. Then Jinx crashes in, hair still wet from his shower, boundless energy apparently undiminished by a full day of physical labor.
“Food!” he announces with characteristic subtlety. “Sustenance required immediately or death is imminent!”
“There’s leftover lasagna,” Theo informs him, seamlessly shifting into his role as pack caretaker. “And I made fresh bread this morning.”
“You’re a literal angel,” Jinx declares, already moving toward the refrigerator. He pauses to press a kiss to Theo’s cheek, lingering just long enough to make the omega flush. “A divine being of culinary mercy.”
“Just practical,” Theo demurs, though pleasure at the praise colors his voice.
As Jinx raids the refrigerator with joyful abandon, Ryker and Finn join us, drawn by the promise of food and company. The kitchen fills with casual banter and comfortable routine—plates passed, drinks poured, seating arranged without conscious thought. The simple domesticity of it settles something in my chest that’s been restless since the vaccine trial began.
This is what we’re fighting for, I realize as I watch my unlikely family share a meal at the end of a normal day’s work. Not just survival, not just preventing genocide, but the right to ordinary moments. To plan pool parties and argue about barbecue menus and collapse together at the end of the day, exhausted but satisfied.
“Tomorrow,” Jinx announces through a mouthful of lasagna, “we swim. And I will personally throw each of you into the deep end at least once.”
“Try it and lose a limb,” I warn, though there’s no heat in the threat.
“Challenge accepted,” he responds with unholy glee.
As the conversation flows around me—Finn explaining the chemical balance needed for optimal swimming, Ryker suggesting security modifications for the pool area that no normal person would consider, Theo detailing his barbecue vision with artistic precision—I find myself simply absorbing the moment. Memorizing it. Storing it away as something precious amid all the danger and darkness.
Because tomorrow we’ll swim and eat and pretend the world isn’t falling apart. And the day after that, we’ll return to planning the Aurora Facility mission, to developing Mona’s vaccine, to fighting my father’s genocidal vision.
But for now—for this one perfect evening of normal—we’re just people. Broken and strange and improbably fitted together, planning a pool party like it’s the most important mission we’ve ever undertaken.
Mid-dessert, just as I’m starting to believe we might actually have one complete normal evening, Theo suddenly stiffens. His spoon clatters against the bowl as his body goes rigid. His spoon clatters against the bowl as his body goes rigid, the suppressants that have been gradually weakening all day suddenly giving way to a heat flare. A wave of heat shimmers off him, visible in the way the air distorts around his skin, like watching asphalt on a summer day. His scent shifts dramatically, the dark vanilla that’s been deepening hourly now bursting into something rich and potent that fills the room like smoke.
Jinx’s nostrils flare immediately, his body responding before his mind seems to process what’s happening. His eyes meet Theo’s across the table, understanding passing between them with primal clarity.
“Time’s up, piccolo,” he says, surprisingly gentle as he rises from his chair. “Suppressants just failed.”
“It’s just a flair.” Theo makes a sound that’s half frustration, half relief. “True heat and I wouldn’t be at all lucid.”
“Biology’s a bitch,” Jinx says simply, moving to help him stand. “Come on. I’ll take care of this flair.”
My breath catches as I watch them move toward the door, Jinx’s hand at the small of Theo’s back, protective and possessive simultaneously. Something warm and unfamiliar curls in my stomach—not jealousy, but something closer to anticipation.
I kind of want to watch that, whatever comes next between them.
Not going to lie, even to myself anymore.