Page 82 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

The heat of Oscar's mouth between my thighs makes me forget I’m supposed to be reviewing the quarterly reports from our Boston operations. My fingers dig into the edge of the mahogany desk, body arching as his tongue finds that rhythm that makes my toes curl.

“Fuck,” I breathe, one hand tangling in his hair, guiding him closer. “Right there.”

His blue eyes flick up to meet mine, dancing with mischief as he doubles down on his efforts. Even on his knees, Oz exudes that same calculated control that first drew me to him. Every stroke of his tongue is deliberate, crafted to push me to the edge without letting me fall.

The mansion is blissfully quiet for once. Matteo is down for his afternoon nap with Talon standing guard, and Z has taken the security team through their paces on the grounds. These stolen moments have become precious currency in our new life.

“Someone could walk in.” I make no effort to stop him. If anything, my thighs tighten around his shoulders, keeping him exactly where I need him.

Oscar's laugh vibrates against my core, sending fresh shivers up my spine. He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. “That's half the thrill, solnishko. Besides, I locked the door.”

“Like a locked door has stopped Z or Talon. They’re both professional locksmiths at this point.”

His mouth returns to its exquisite torture, and I let my head fall back, surrendering to the pleasure building inside me. The quarterly reports scatter across the desk, forgotten as Oscar slides two fingers inside me, curling them.

“God, I've missed this,” I gasp, my free hand knocking a pen holder to the floor with a clatter that neither of us acknowledges. “Missed you.”

Oscar has been gone for five days, handling a situation at our West Coast operations. Five days without his steady presence, his methodical touch that knows exactly how to take me apart.

The pressure builds, my thighs trembling as I hover on the precipice. Oscar senses it, he always does, and slows his pace deliberately, drawing me back from the edge with maddening expertise.

“Don't you dare,” I warn.

He lifts his head. “Patience, solnishko. We have time.”

“I don't want patience,” I growl, using my grip to guide him back. “I want to come on your tongue before someone interrupts us.”

His smile is wicked as he lowers his head again, giving me exactly what I demanded.

The rhythm shifts—faster, rougher—his fingers working in sync with his mouth until the tension finally shatters.

My back arches off the desk as pleasure rips through me, raw and consuming, Oscar’s name tumbling from my lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction all at once.

He stays with me through it, easing me down from the heights with gentler strokes until I collapse boneless in my chair, my chest heaving over my large belly.

The twins are expecting in two months' time.

Oscar rises with fluid grace, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning in to capture my lips in a kiss that tastes of me.

“Welcome home,” I mutter against his mouth, feeling his smile.

“If that's my welcome, I should leave more often,” he teases, helping me straighten my skirt.

I catch his wrist, pulling him closer. "Don't you dare. It’s going to take all of us when these two arrive.” My fingers swirl over my swollen belly.

“Never for long, solnishko. You know that.”

The bulge in his tailored pants hasn't escaped my notice. I reach for his belt, but he catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm.

“Later,” he promises, his voice rough with restraint. “Z is probably already suspicious about why I rushed straight to your office instead of debriefing him first.”

As if summoned by his name, three sharp knocks sound at the door, followed by Z's unmistakable voice. “If you two are done fucking on the desk, we have a situation.”

“Your timing is impeccable as always, brother,” he calls out, straightening his tie.

I smooth my skirt, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure.

Oz walks over to the door, unlocking it. Z pushes the door open, his silver eyes taking in the scene with a knowing smirk—the scattered papers, my flushed cheeks, Oscar's slightly rumpled appearance. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest.

"Nice to see you too, brother," Z drawls, his observance lingering on Oscar before shifting to me. “Though I was hoping for an actual briefing on the San Francisco situation before you debriefed our queen.”

“I was getting to that. Priorities, brother.” Oscar replies smoothly. He moves away from the door and perches on the edge of my desk with casual elegance. “You and Talon have had her to yourselves for nearly a week. I think I should be given a little grace.”

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 the information. 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?”

“They're practicing their kickboxing,” I mutter, placing my hand over his. “I swear they're more active when they hear your voice.”