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“You really care about her, don't you? It's not just guilt.”

The question hangs between us, demanding honesty I'm not sure I'm capable of. I've spent years building walls, keeping everyone at a safe distance. Even these men—the closest thing I have to a family. Other than my sister, who is an ocean away from me at the fancy boarding school until our father can marry her off.

I stare at the keyboard, suddenly fascinated by the worn letters, anything to avoid the smirk I know is on his face.

“What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world,” he responds. “Because if it's just guilt, you'll keep punishing yourself until you're useless to everyone. But if it's more...”

“Then what?” I snap. “What magical solution does that provide? She's already got three men falling over themselves for her. You think she needs another fucked-up asshole in the mix?”

Talon's expression doesn't change. “Dude, you’re so fucking blind. She needs all of us. Every single one of us. Even you.”

“You didn't see her face when those screens went black,” I say, deflecting. “The way she looked at me like I personally failed her.”

“I saw her face just fine,” Talon counters. “What I didn’t see was blame. That’s all in your head.”

I let out a bitter sound that barely qualifies as a laugh, rough and raw in my throat. “Add it to the fucking list.”

I turn back to my work, hoping he'll take the hint and leave. But Talon remains stubbornly in place.

“The twins are crowding her,” he says after a moment of silence. “Z, especially. She needs space to breathe sometimes.”

“And I'm supposed to be that space?” I scoff. “The creep who watches her from security feeds? Yeah, I'm sure that's just what she needs.”

“You're not giving her enough credit,” Talon says. “Or yourself.”

I snort, fingers returning to the keyboard. The code flows almost automatically, my brain operating on muscle memory while my thoughts scatter in a dozen different directions. "You've got a real talent for bullshit, you know that?"

“It's called perspective,” Talon counters. “Something you could use right now.”

A notification pings on my second monitor—one of my dark web crawlers has picked up something. I switch screens immediately, scanning the alert.

“What is it?" Talon asks, leaning forward.

“Chatter about the auction," I mutter, already diving into the encrypted message board. “Someone's complaining about losing the bid on Lot 27."

“Our lot," Talon confirms, moving to stand behind me.

I nod, translating the coded language on the fly. “They're pissed they lost to a newcomer—that would be us. They are asking around about 'Charles Blackwood.'”

"Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily,” I say, quickly setting up a monitoring protocol for the username. “. As long as they're just bitching and not actively investigating…”

Another ping, this one from a different alert system. My heart rate accelerates as I click through to the source. A different forum, a different user, but the same topic, the mysterious Charles Blackwood, who outbid everyone on Lot 27.

“Shit,” I mutter, opening three more windows to track the spread of interest. “It's picking up traction."

“Can they trace it back to us?” Talon's voice remains steady, but I can hear the undercurrent of tension.

“Not through my security measures,” I say, fingers flying across the keyboard. “But if enough people start digging into Charles Blackwood's background, they might realize the identity doesn't hold up to scrutiny.”

I deploy another layer of digital misinformation, seeding false details about Charles Blackwood across several hidden web forums and his wealthy, reclusive family based in Geneva. Enough to seem credible but impossible to verify.

“Do you think that will work?”

“It has to,” I mutter, launching one final algorithm to obscure our digital footprint. “If they link Charles Blackwood to us, we’re exposed.”