Page 102 of Over the Edge

“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing the words were woefully inadequate. “I wish I could’ve stopped him.”

She shook her head, finally turning to face me. In the low light, her green eyes were dark with memory. “You were right beside me, just as helpless. That’s not why I’m telling you this.”

“Then why?”

Her gaze dropped to my chest, then back to my face, her eyes huge and glassy. “I need you to help me forget his hands.”

Fuck.The lump rose up hard and fast in my throat, nearly strangling me. My Lyric was not fragile, but right now she might shatter if I touched her wrong. I’d seen her face down arms dealers and killer drones without flinching, but this—this raw vulnerability—was something else entirely.

I understood what she was asking. Not just sex—we’d had that already. She was asking me to overwrite a violation with something healing. To replace the memory of Moreau’s unwanted touch with something chosen. Something safe.

I had to clear my throat twice before I could respond, but my voice still sounded like gravel. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, closing the distance between us until I could feel her breath warm against my neck. “Please. You’re the only one who can. The only one I trust enough.” Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt. “I need this, Flynn. I need you.”

I raised my hands slowly, telegraphing each movement, and cradled her face between my palms. Her skin felt like warm silk beneath my calloused fingers. “If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you tell me to stop. Promise?”

“I promise.” She closed her eyes and leaned into my touch, a shuddering breath escaping her as I cupped her cheek. I brushed away a wayward tear with my thumb, my heart breaking and healing all at once as she pressed against my hand.

“Okay?” I asked.

“More than okay,” she murmured.

I bent my head and brushed my lips against hers in the barest whisper of a kiss. She leaned into me, her hands coming up to grip my biceps, anchoring herself. I kept the kiss achingly tender, fighting against the desire to deepen it, to claim her mouth the way my body was screaming to do.

This wasn’t about me. This was about Lyric reclaiming herself, her body, her choice.

When she parted her lips, inviting me deeper, I followed her lead, letting her set the pace. Her fingers slid up my arms to my shoulders, then around my neck, pulling me closer with growing confidence. The kiss deepened, her tongue brushing mine, sending heat spiraling through me.

I kept my hands where they were, framing her face, resisting the urge to explore further until she showed me she wanted more. This had to be her choice, every step of the way.

She broke the kiss, her breathing uneven, and rested her forehead against mine. “You can touch me, Flynn,” she whispered. “I want you to.”

Slowly, I let my hands drift down her neck, over her shoulders, tracing the elegant line of her collarbone with my thumbs. She shivered, but her eyes remained locked on mine, the haunted look replaced by heat.

“Still okay?” I asked.

She nodded, reaching for the hem of my shirt. “Take this off.”

I complied, pulling the henley over my head and letting it drop to the floor. Her gaze traveled over my chest, lingering on the pink, freshly healed scars. Her fingertips traced the jagged line where Moreau’s blade had nearly ended me, her touch feather-light and reverent. I fought to keep my breathing steady as her hand drifted lower, mapping the constellation of old scars and fresh wounds that told the story of my life.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” I lied. It still twinged when I moved too quickly, but that was nothing compared to seeing the shadow in her eyes when she looked at it.

Her eyes lifted to mine, something raw and aching flickering behind the green.

“You shouldn’t have had to take that hit for me,” she murmured.

I caught her hand before she could pull it back, pressed it flat against the scar.

“I would’ve taken worse,” I said quietly. “Gladly.”

Her throat worked like she was swallowing words she couldn’t quite say.

Instead, she curled her fingers over my heart and held on.

I leaned in, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what you want, Lyric. Tell me what you need.”

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