Page 93 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Gregor appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, carrying a mug in one hand and a dish towel in the other. Fergus immediately abandoned Mac and trotted to him.

Gregor looked at Hudson and Lincoln, then at me, then at my stomach.

“Mac said you’re having twins,” he said.

“Yes, thank you, Mac should get a job as the town crier.”

The corner of Gregor’s mouth moved. From the end of the hallway, Artem’s voice cut through the warmth like polished steel. “Mary.”

I looked past Gregor. Artem stood in the doorway of his office, and he wasn’t smiling. That was rarely useful data because Artem smiled only when something was either very amusing or about to become legally unrecoverable.

“My office,” he said.

Maeve sighed. “Artem.”

“Now.”

I glanced at Hudson and Lincoln. “Welcome to the family.”

“Feels hostile,” Lincoln murmured.

“It is. But there may be tea. Maeve has turned her alphas into tea lovers.”

Artem turned and walked back into his office, leaving the door open.

We followed because apparently pregnancy hadn’t exempted me from summons. Maeve came too, after handing Mila to Gregor. Mac tried to follow and was redirected by Ivan who appeared out of nowhere with the words, “Who wants to see if Fergus can resist a sausage?”

Mac brightened. “Daddy I, Mama said no sausages for Fergus because they make him explode.”

Maeve pointed at Ivan. “You’re cleaning up after him if it’s in the house.”

Ivan laughed. “We have cleaners, and I made gluten-free sausages.”

“He makes them,” Lincoln muttered. “Who would believe Bratva men would get so domesticated?”

The office door closed behind us before I could hear the outcome, which was probably for the best.

Artem’s office was exactly as intimidating as its owner. Dark shelves, heavy desk, expensive rug, lamps that glowed rather than shone, and a view over the side lawn where one of the Dobermans moved along the fence line with silent purpose.

Hudson and Lincoln stood beside me as Artem picked up a folder from his desk. “Hudson Bale,” he said.

Hudson’s expression didn’t change.

“Thirty-nine. Born in Kent. Educated at Harrow, Oxford for economics, then London Business School. Hudson and Lincoln Holdings, private investment, property development, you have three primary offices. London, Boston, and Edinburgh. No criminal record. Two civil suits settled, both commercial, neither concerning. Known for refusing developments that damage local infrastructure unless remediation is included.”

I blinked.

Hudson looked at Artem. “That’s very thorough.”

“This is the summary.”

Lincoln leaned toward me. “There’s more?”

“There’s always more,” I whispered.

Artem turned a page. “Lincoln Hart. Forty. Former rugby player. Retired after knee and shoulder injuries. Family originally from Yorkshire. Investments tied to Bale since the age of twenty-six. No criminal record. Three public fights in youth, all before age twenty-two, all rugby-adjacent, no charges. Strong ties to athlete rehabilitation charities and currently holds minority stakes in two clinics, both reputable.”

Lincoln stared at him as Artem closed the folder. “You are both financially stable, publicly clean, privately connected, and not stupid.”