Ocean grinned. “Uh-huh. Says the guy who googles his own stress responses.”
Boston cackled. “He’s not wrong.”
Freedom darted past them, stealing a slice of bacon before Cookie could swat him with a spatula.
“Goddamn YA gremlins,” Cookie muttered. “Can’t cook fast enough to keep you all fed.”
Micah slid in after Freedom—beautiful, silent, onyx-black eyes taking in everything with that assassin-level calm that made grown men rethink their choices. He reached for a plate without a word and handed it absentmindedly to Freedom, then snagged one for himself.
“Thanks,” Freedom said.
Micah just nodded. No wasted words.
Viper stood at the edge of the scene, coffee in hand, watching the chaos spin around him.
It shouldn’t have felt normal.
It did.
Azrael’s laughter fading down the hall.
Boston razzing Sage.
Syx pretending he wasn’t amused.
Ocean stirring his hot chocolate with the bored elegance of a prince.
Micah drifting like a shadow.
Sage calculating everyone’s caffeine intake.
A kitchen full of assassins pretending to be normal young adults at breakfast.
A family built from scars.
And beneath all the noise, Viper felt the edge—the simmer—the hum of a ranch preparing for something it hadn’t named yet.
The noise eventually thinned as the YA group drifted toward the training barn, plates half-cleaned, boots scuffing across old wood. Crow leaned closer to Viper, voice low enough not to carry.
“You notice?” he murmured.
Viper frowned. “Notice what?”
“Savage contacted YA last night,” Crow said. “Only YA. Not us.”
Rip paused mid-sip of coffee. Law’s gaze flicked over—sharp, attentive, instantly reading what it meant.
Viper’s jaw tightened.
Crow would’ve heard that from his boyfriend, Rebel—YA gossip spread fast.
But what stuck was this:
Savage never bypassed Genesis. Not unless someone at the top pushed him to.
Yesterday, Will had called him about the asset—orders to keep Evan Barstow secure, squeeze every ounce of intel out of him. Nothing about an op.
And when Viper pressed, Will had said: Not now.
