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“Growin’ up, a birthday party was just a way to shine a light on us,” he said. “Which we never wanted, ’cause in the spotlight, we had to change our behavior. We had to watch ourselves, how we acted, how we gravitated toward each other.”

I scraped my teeth along my bottom lip, having never thought of it that way. But it made sense with all their stories about their childhood. How they’d started hiding their brotherhood, or just how close they were.

“Fast-forward till we joined the private sector,” he continued, clearing his throat. “We were trained to become gray men. To lose our personal information, to blend in, and to create profiles that couldn’t be traced back to us.”

I’d heard Reese mention that term before. Gray man.

“Did you know I’ve never once used my real information online?” he asked.

I shook my head. That was fucking crazy. I mean, I knew he used creative handles for social media and that he never accepted any cookies, but come on. Was it even possible to survive without doing shit online? Banking? Shopping? Signing up for whatever?

But it dawned on me. “Wait, you have fake information?”

He inclined his head. “You’ve never seen me accept a package at our house.”

Well, no, but…we’d just moved in. And when we’d lived here in the cabin, they’d used a PO box for understandable reasons. We didn’t want any deliverymen getting lost in a kink mansion.

“What about Reese?” I wondered.

“Same there, but he’s not as meticulous as I am,” he answered. “He puts more effort into security and defense. Against my wishes, he’ll even sign up for occasional newsletters.”

My mouth twitched.

I wasn’t ready for the comic relief!

He cleared his throat again. “My point is, this is how we’ve led our lives the past twenty years. We’re always careful. It’s so ingrained in us, sweetheart. We share the bare minimum—and half of it is bullshit.”

I frowned and⁠—

“Not where you’re concerned,” he was quick to add.

Thank fuck. I was getting ready to freak out again, goddammit.

“We’ve been more open and honest with you than with anyone else,” he told me. “I’m not sayin’ it’s enough yet, but we want you to know everythin’. You just gotta understand our worry. The shit we’ve done⁠—”

“I don’t care about that,” I grated out. I’d proven that by now. I’d heard enough “shit.” I knew they had killed. I knew they had extracted information by “any means necessary.”

I. Didn’t. Care.

Because they had also risked their lives to save others and prevent major conflicts.

“Most people do care,” he implored patiently. “But that’s beside the point. I want you to understand where we’re comin’ from and why it doesn’t come easy for us to lay it all out there—when we were trained not to. All those tiny lies become part of you, pup.”

I nodded slowly. I knew a thing or two about breaking habits too. It wasn’t easy. Coping mechanisms, in particular. Oh, and I still wanted to smoke every fucking day.

“We should have told you about our birthday, though.” He put his hand over mine and locked eyes with me. “I’m sorry we dragged our feet.”

I nodded again, and I ducked my gaze to our hands. Thank fuck we didn’t fight often, ’cause I hated it. Losing the ability to touch them whenever I wanted was enough to make me miserable. I needed their closeness as much as air.

“So…June first, huh?” I played with his fingers, tracing his knuckles with my fingertips.

“Yes. And we hope you can keep that to yourself.”

Another nod from me. “Of course.” But… I glanced up. “Why the secrecy now? You’re retired from that work.”

Did they still need to be so careful?

River drew a deep breath and smiled ruefully. “You remember Darius Quinn?”