Silas nods. “She submits with us because she wants to. That’s not our demand. That’s her instinct.”
Penelope swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel… safe doing that with you two. It’s different with Talon. With him, I want to take control sometimes.”
Talon splutters. “Sometimes?”
She smirks. “Okay, most of the time.”
Silas smacks the back of his head lightly. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?” Talon snaps.
“For giving you a crash course in healthy kink dynamics.” Silas gestures broadly. “Also for not roasting you alive for gagging every five seconds.”
“I didn’t gag,” Talon grumbles.
“You absolutely gagged,” I say.
Penelope hides a grin behind her hand.
Talon groans again. “This is the worst best family ever.”
Silas claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
Talon mutters something about changing his last name when Silas reaches across the table and drags the blueprint back toward the center, the shift subtle but unmistakable—a line snapping back into place.
“Alright,” Silas says, tone dropping into its mission weight. “Kink confessions are over. Back to reality.”
Penelope straightens in her seat, still pink but refocusing instantly. I flip the laptop closed just enough to signal the pivot.
“Heartwarming as this disaster was,” Silas adds dryly, tapping the blueprint with two fingers, “we need sleep.”
“Agreed,” I say, settling back into the role we came here to play. “Tomorrow’s going to be hell, and we need to be sharp.”
Penelope meets my eyes. “We’re really doing this.”
“Yes,” I tell her. “And we’re doing it together.”
Talon nods, quieter now. “Minxy won’t be alone anymore.”
“No,” I say. “We’re with her every step of the way.”
Penelope swallows hard, her fingers brushing the edge of her badge again. Silas stands, claps a hand on Talon’s shoulder, then Penelope’s. “Get ready. We move at eight.”
Talon blows out a breath. “Okay.”
Penelope inhales slowly, steadier this time. “Okay.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
SILAS
Healthcare facilitiesalways smell the same. Antiseptic, coffee, and fear under fresh paint.
Riverview’s lobby looks harmless enough. Neutral art, fake plants, and a bubble wall that tries to be soothing and fails. I sit in a gray vinyl chair with a clipboard on my knee and a hospital badge clipped to my scrubs. The badge reads “Samuel Hale, RN,” with a photo of my very professional face.
My watch ticks toward 10:15 a.m.
Their van pulls up to the curb, white with green lettering. My neck goes tight.
