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“Yes, really, moya koroleva,” he declares against my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. “You were gone far too long.”

“Did you recognize anything?” Talon inquires.

I shake my head, disappointment settling heavily in my chest. “No. Nothing we can use. Just more evidence of what those bastards did to me.”

Alex clears his throat from where he's settled into an armchair. “It's not a complete waste. I've got software running through the dark web looking for anything that matches the backgrounds in those photos. Architecture details, equipment models, even the lighting fixtures. Something might ping."

Hope flickers, small but persistent.

“I'll get started extracting the audio from the videos I haven’t analyzed yet. We might not recognize the voices, but my recognition software might find matches if they're in any database—legal or otherwise."

Z's arms tighten around my waist. “It better find something. I'm not letting those fuckers breathe free air much longer.”

“We need to move forward regardless," Oz interjects, his expression serious. “I need to find Ricky.”

“Ricky?” I question. “Who is that?”

“Ricky Novak is an informant I’ve used for a few years," Oz answers.

“Do you think we can trust him?”

“No," Oz admits freely. “But he’s the best shot that we have. He may be able to point us towards The Collector’s new clinic. It’s worth a shot.”

“What makes you think this Ricky knows anything about the new clinic?” I ask, leaning forward despite Z's possessive grip.

“He knew about your auction and got us into it. Ricky is the reason we found you.”

Something shifts in my chest at this. Ricky—a name I've never heard before—is part of the reason I'm sitting here instead of still being passed around like property. I glance at Oz, studying the tight line of his jaw.

“Then he knew I was there all along?”

“Not exactly,” Oz clarifies. “Ricky deals in scraps of information from the underbelly. He heard rumors about a high-profile sale and caught wind that several of the major families were interested.”

I shift in Zaire's lap, his possessive hold loosening just enough to let me turn and face the room properly. "And you trust someone who profits from human trafficking intel?"

“Trust is a strong word,” Oz responds coolly. "I trust that he values his life and the money I pay him. Ricky has never fed me false information—not intentionally.”

“He's a cockroach,” Zaire comments against my back, his chest rumbling. “But cockroaches survive by knowing where the dangers are. They scurry between worlds unseen."

Alex interjects. “If he knew about the auction, he might know about other operations. The Collector doesn't work alone—he's got a network. Ricky may be a part of it or knows someone who is."

“When are we meeting him?” I ask, already knowing I'm not staying behind.

“We aren't meeting him,” Oz says, emphasizing the ‘we’ with a pointed look. “I am. Alone.”

Z's chest rumbles against my back. “Like hell you are.”

“Ricky has only ever worked with me. He doesn’t know about the Second Sons, or Vesper,” Oz argues. “I’d like to keep it that way. He’s been helpful in the past, but Ricky is the kind of guy who would sell out his own mother if he could make a quick buck.”

“So, we send you in alone to meet a man who sells information to the highest bidder?” I ask, my voice laced with skepticism. “That sounds like a terrible plan.”

“It's not ideal,” Oz admits. "But Ricky's paranoid. One whiff that something's off and he'll disappear.”

Zaire's fingers flex against my hip. “I don't like it.”

“You don't have to like it,” Oz counters, a familiar tension building between the twins. “But we need information, and Ricky's our best lead.”

I shift in Z's lap, trying to process everything. “What if we compromise? Oz meets Ricky as planned, but we have backup nearby.”