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“Your job, huh?”

“One of many services I provide,” he replies, a hint of his usual arrogance returning to his voice. His hand moves to my hip, thumb brushing over what will surely become a bruise by morning. “Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head against his chest. “Not in any way I didn't want.”

His arms tighten around me, something protective in the gesture. "Good."

We should move. Should clean up, return upstairs where Oz is undoubtedly making progress on Alex's files. But I can't bring myself to leave this moment, this brief respite.

Movement overhead interrupts the moment. footsteps crossing the floor above us, then the creak of the basement door opening. Z tenses beneath me, his body instantly alert as the footsteps descend the stairs.

“Z? Vesper?” Talon's voice echoes down the hallway, drawing closer. “You guys good? I heard noises.”

Z shifts me off him with surprising gentleness before calling back. “We're fine. Just working through some tension.” His voice carries that familiar edge of humor.

Talon appears in the doorway, taking in our disheveled state with a raised eyebrow. Torn clothing around us, Z's split lip, the bruises already forming on both our bodies.

“Is that what they are calling it these days?” he smiles. Talon leans against the doorframe, but I catch the subtle way he stares me for signs of genuine distress. “Though you might want to borrow Z's shirt, Vesper. Yours seems to have met with an unfortunate accident.”

I glance down at the tattered remains of my clothing scattered around us and feel the flush rise to my cheeks. Not embarrassment exactly, we're long past that, but awareness of how completely I'd surrendered to the moment.

“Oz sent me to find you.”

The reminder of why we're here, of what's at stake, crashes back like a bucket of ice water. I sit up, wincing slightly as my muscles protest the sudden movement. Z immediately reaches for his discarded shirt, handing it to me with gentle efficiency.

“What did he find?” I ask, pulling the shirt over my head, covering enough to preserve what little modesty I have left.

“We have the blackmail. We have what we need.”

OSCAR

I can always tellwhen my brother has fucked someone senseless. It's in the way he moves like a predator who's just fed but is still prowling for more. As I watch him emerge from the basement with Vesper trailing behind him, I can't help but smirk at Talon, who's already pulling out his wallet.

“Don't even start,” I say, holding out my hand as Talon slaps a fifty into my palm. “I've shared a womb with the man. I know his post-coital strut when I see it.”

Talon shakes his head, glancing back toward the stairs where Z and Vesper disappeared. “Could've been a hardcore training session. She looked like she needed to blow off steam.”

“Oh, she blew something alright.” I pocket the cash, turning back to the laptop where I've been scouring Alex’s files.

Talon drops into the chair opposite me, wincing as his injured shoulder protests the movement. “You're a sick bastard, betting on your brother's sex life.”

“Says the man who took the bet.” I don't look up from the screen, my fingers continuing their rhythmic dance across the keyboard. “Besides, it's not about the sex. It's about knowing what she needs.” Vesper has been spiraling. It was only a matter of time until she spiraled out of control. Z just realized it sooner than the rest of us.

Vesper reappears a few minutes later wearing fresh clothes and her hair still damp from what I'm guessing was a quick shower to wash off the evidence of their "training session." There's something different about her now. subtle shift in her demeanor that only someone who's been watching her as closely as I have would notice.

“Better, solnishko?” I ask, studying the way she moves across the room with more fluidity than before, the rigid tension noticeably diminished.

She nods, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. “Yes. I needed to...clear my head.”

Z appears behind her, his split lip and the fresh bruise blooming along his jawline telling their own story. He catches my knowing look and responds with a barely perceptible shrug, neither confirming nor denying what transpired downstairs, but not bothering to hide his satisfaction either.

She seems lighter than I've seen her since before this nightmare began. The haunted, hollow look since her meeting with The Collector hasn't disappeared entirely, but it's beenpushed back, replaced by something sharper, more focused. Z's methods may be unorthodox, but I can't argue with results. Despite the pang of jealousy that he’s able to give her that and not me.

“I've made progress with the files,” I tell her, gesturing toward the laptop. “Mario had a lot of blackmail on the families.”

“Which families?”

“Most of the American families,” I answer, turning the laptop so she can see the organized folders. “Some of the European ones, too.”