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I roll my eyes at their banter, but there's no real annoyance behind it. This is our normal, the easy teasing, the casual intimacy that's grown between all of us since we forged our strange family out of blood and chaos.

"What's the situation?" I ask, getting back to business as I shuffle the scattered reports into a semblance of order.

Z's expression shifts, playfulness giving way to the focused intensity that makes him so lethal in the field. "We got a hit on one of the trackers we planted in Mikhail's network. A facility in northern Manitoba."

My heart rate picks up, and it has nothing to do with the afterglow of pleasure still warming my blood. "Manitoba? That's?—"

"Remote. Isolated. Perfect for hiding his victims," Oscar finishes, already reaching for his tablet to pull up theinformation. His post-coital relaxation vanishes, replaced by the strategic mind that's helped us dismantle my grandfather's empire piece by piece.

After my grandfather's downfall, we've spent the last year tracking down his facilities. Shutting them down one by one and reuniting his victims with their families. He destroyed lives for his family legacy. Our new future will be one of unification and peace, so long as I am the head of the family. We deserve that much now that his reign of tyranny is over. We are nearly there with two facilities left to locate.

"How solid is the intel?" I push myself up straighter, instinctively placing a protective hand over my belly where our twins grow. Every facility we've found has been a new fresh horror.

"Solid enough that Talon's already prepping the jet," Z answers, pushing away from the doorframe to approach my desk. He slides a tablet toward me, its screen displaying satellite imagery of what appears to be a compound nestled among dense forest. "Remote location, heavy security, power consumption consistent with medical equipment. All the hallmarks of Mikhail's operations."

I study the images. "How many people are we looking at?"

"Thermal imaging suggests approximately twenty staff, and..." Z hesitates. "At least a dozen potential captives."

My stomach tightens, and not from the twins shifting inside me. A dozen lives. A dozen families torn apart by my grandfather's obsession with genetic manipulation and power.

"When can we move?" I ask, already knowing the answer won't satisfy me.

Oscar's hand settles on my shoulder, gentle but firm. "We move. You stay."

I turn to face him, ready to argue, but Z cuts in before I can start.

"You're seven months pregnant with twins, Vesper," he says, his tone brooking no argument. "This isn't negotiable."

"I don't need to be on the ground team," I counter, though I know it's a losing battle. "I can coordinate from the jet, stay in Canadian airspace?—"

"No," both men say simultaneously, their rare unity on this matter telling me exactly how seriously they're taking this. Oscar's fingers press slightly into my shoulder, a gentle reminder of promises made.

"We agreed," he says quietly, his tone softer but no less determined. "No field operations during the third trimester. The risk is too high."

I exhale slowly, frustration warring with the logic I can't refute. These children inside me, our future, deserve protection above all else. Still, the thought of sending my family into danger while I remain behind feels like swallowing glass.

“Fine,” I concede, though my tone makes it clear I'm far from happy about it. "But I want real-time updates. Full surveillance feeds to my secure tablet. Are you all going?”

Z's lips quirk into a half-smile. “Already arranged, moya koroleva. Talon’s staying behind. He insisted.”

Of course he did. Talon—my shield, my conscience, my steadfast protector—would have anticipated my reaction. In the year since we claimed my son and dismantled the Petrov empire, he's become attuned to my needs in ways that sometimes unnerves me.

“I also want a few bags of ketchup chips. For the babies, of course.”

Z's eyebrows shoot up. “Ketchup chips? Those Canadian abominations?”

“The babies want what they want,” I shrug, fighting to keep my expression neutral. “And they want ketchup chips.”

“I'll add it to the supply list,” Oscar says, his thumb absently stroking the nape of my neck. “Along with the all dressed ones you demolished last week."

“Don't forget the dill pickle ones, too,” I add, unable to hide my smile as Z's face contorts with exaggerated disgust.

“Your pregnancy cravings are a crime against humanity,” Z declares, pulling out his phone to make the note anyway. “Talon's still traumatized from the peanut butter and sardine sandwiches.”

“Says the man who eats gas station sushi at three in the morning,” I counter, shifting in my chair as one of the twins delivers a particularly enthusiastic kick to my ribs. “Oof.”

Oscar's hand immediately moves to my belly, his expression softening as he feels the movement beneath his palm. “Active today?”