Page 111 of Reckless Consequences

Jinx sprawls at my feet, arm draped across my ankle like his body still refuses to let go, the cherry-tobacco notes in his alpha scent spiking whenever my muscles tense.

Finn is reading something ridiculous—a post-viral sociological theory text that no one understands and everyone pretends to care about—his beta focus so complete that his breathing has synchronized with the rest of the pack without him noticing.

And me?

I’m not scanning for exits. My beta brain isn’t calculating escape routes or analyzing structural weaknesses. The constant background processes that once mapped every emergency route have gone quiet. I’m not waiting for a betrayal I’ve memorized the shape of, muscles no longer coiled for immediate flight. I’m not preparing to run, fingerprints no longer tingling with the memory of emergency protocols.

I’m just breathing. Just here. My body finally accepting what my mind has been processing for weeks—that safety isn’t a location but a chemical reality created by these four people whose molecules have merged with mine.

I used to think survival was the point. That if I stayed sharp enough, fast enough, ruthless enough—I’d earn the right to keep breathing.

But this? This is what I stayed alive for.

“Here,” I whisper, just to hear it in the air. The word vibrates through me, releasing tension I didn’t know my muscles still held. “I’m still here.”

Around me, four bodies shift imperceptibly closer, four distinct breathing patterns synchronizing with mine without conscious command. Pack bonds solidifying on a level no Sterling virus could ever replicate.