Three years later…
LILY PERCHED on the edge of the couch, a twin toddler balanced on each knee, tiny feet kicking at her thighs, hands reaching for her hair, her necklace, anything to tug her into their small whirlwind of attention.
She had survived wars, gunfights, and betrayals of blood and trust—but somehow, no lesson in combat, no tactical planning, no war briefing had prepared her for this.
Two toddlers, alive, chaotic, loud, and infinitely exhausting, were running through hallways once echoing with tension and now filled with the soft chaos of life.
Behind her, the door to the kitchen banged as one of Ronan’s men—tattooed arms, leather vest, and still somehow terrifyingly gentle—ducked to avoid a flying toy.
Ayden hovered by the fridge with a clipboard, monitoring the break
