Page 28 of Over the Edge

“Two weeks isn’t recovery,” I said quietly. “It’s a band-aid over a bullet hole.”

“And y’all are still bleeding,” Flynn added softly. “Especially you, E.”

I didn’t think the man’s expression could get any harder. I was wrong.

“We’re done with this conversation,” Ethan said, his voice arctic. He turned on his heel and strode for the door. “Briefing. My room. Ten minutes.”

The door slammed behind him.

For a second, no one moved. Then Ozzy followed him out without a word, nose still buried in his phone.

Trent cleared his throat. “Alright, here’s how it’s going to work.” He glanced between Flynn and me, then at the bed. “Lyric stays at her suite and the Hotel de Paris, but Flynn, you won’t be sleeping there with her. We’ve got another room down the hall. Oz and I will take that one with Ethan. Nolan and Alistair, you’re in here with Flynn.”

Nolan picked up the duffle bag he’d dropped when he walked in and eyed the two beds. “I call dibs on the one that hasn’t been christened yet.” He tossed his bag onto the bed farthest from the door, his grin widening. “Unless you two already tried both?”

Heat crawled up my neck. “We didn’t try either.”

“Unfortunately,” Flynn muttered.

Nolan’s laugh was quick and delighted as he flopped back on the bed. “Interrupted at the good part, were you? That’s tragic.”

“Reckon that means I’m on the floor.” Alistair dropped his medical bag off his shoulder with a heavy thud. His accent was Southern, but not sweet—more mountain steel than molasses. A far cry from Nolan’s Irish lilt, which practically winked at you between syllables.

There was something about Alistair’s voice that made you want to trust him, made you believe every word he said. And suddenly I understood why the team called him Preacher.

“Nah,” Nolan smirked and rolled, patting the mattress beside him suggestively. “C’mon, Ali. Plenty of room. If you’re nice, I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”

Alistair gave him a flat, unamused stare. “I’d rather spoon with a porcupine.”

“Ouch.”

“Arabidporcupine.”

“Well, mate, you’re missing out. I’ve been told I’m an excellent cuddler.”

“By whom? The ugly blow-up doll you keep in your locker at HQ?”

Nolan gasped and pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Take that back! Helga has feelings!”

I watched their banter with a strange sense of displacement. It felt practiced, comfortable—the kind that came from men who had faced death together and survived to joke about it. These men were a unit. A family. And I was the outsider.

Trent grunted and shook his head. “All right, you two. Got it out of your system?”

“For now,” Nolan decided after a beat.

“Good. Get your shit together and let’s go. Ethan’s not in the mood for delays.”

Nolan’s smile vanished. He hopped off the bed and followed Trent out, leaving Alistair lingering in the doorway.

He watched us a beat, then said quietly, “Flynn’s not wrong.”

Flynn lifted an eyebrow. “About what?”

“The bleeding,” he replied. “Ethan’s holding it together by sheer force of will right now. Maya’s death gutted him, and work’s the only thing keeping him upright.”

“I know,” Flynn said, softer than I’d ever heard him. I looked at him sharply. There was a lot of weight in those two words. History. Maybe even regret. He’d said he was only a freelancer, but had he fought side-by-side with Ethan before?

Alistair nodded like he’d expected that. “Yeah, I know you do.” Then he turned to me. “Don’t take it personally, Lyric. Ethan’s not trying to be cruel. He’s just... running on empty and doesn’t know how to stop without falling apart. And unfortunately, right now, you’re the easiest target for his anger.”

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