“The Cravens for combat. Jericho for Syndicate operational knowledge. Vanya as secondary intelligence and Ivory League context. Our comms specialist, Mara Jones, for communications and technical,” Nadia lists off.
“How long before you can be operational?” asks Viktor.
“We’ll move out tonight.” Brenna looks at me.
“Good,” says Viktor. “Mara will have updates ready for you when you arrive.” He pauses. “And Brenna. If this goes well, we talk afterward about the situation the Syndicate is in now versus where they were six months ago. There’s an opportunity here for a larger operational move. But first, we get Forrester.”
“Agreed.”
The call ends.
The kitchen is quiet.
“Forty-eight hours,” Conner says. Quiet.
Brenna stands. “Everyone out. I need Briar alone.”
They go. Willow squeezes my arm on the way past. Conner touches my shoulder once, briefly, and then the door closes behind them.
Brenna sits back down across from me. Studies me.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me before you fly out tomorrow?”
I could lie. I could tell her no. The bond was enough to disclose for one conversation.
But my hand has gone back to my belly without my permission, and Brenna’s eyes follow it, and whatever I had prepared to say dies in my throat.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
I don’t say it. I don’t have to.
Her expression does something complicated. Frustration, annoyance, compassion, all compressed into the alpha’s trained neutrality. She absorbs it in a few seconds. Settles.
“How far?”
“Nearly a month. Greta says since the first mating.”
“Does he know?”
“No.”
“Briar—”
“I know.”
“You’re pregnant by the man we’re flying into a Syndicate facility to extract.”
“Yes.”
“And you understand what the risk calculation is for a pregnant woman in an active Syndicate facility.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still going.”
“Yes.”