Page 35 of Over the Edge

It wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be enough until she walked through that door.

I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass on the sideboard harder than necessary. The tumbler cracked, sending a thin line up the crystal. It matched the one running through me—that slow, spider-web fracture that had been spreading since I watched her walk out that door.

The suite felt too small, too confined. I ran a hand through my hair, checked my watch for the hundredth time, and glanced at the door again.

When the lock finally clicked, every muscle in my body went taut.

Lyric stepped inside, and I knew immediately something was wrong. Her movements were too controlled, her face too blank. The poised mask of Elisa Deveraux was firmly in place, but beneath it, I could see the edges fraying.

“Are you okay?” I kept my voice quiet, even as my pulse kicked into overdrive.

She didn’t look at me right away. Just shut the door, exhaled slow and measured, and leaned back against the wood like she needed a second to steady herself.

My stomach tightened.

She pushed off the door and walked toward the bedroom, dropping her clutch on the dining table. “I lost the chance to buy the drone system outright, but I got an invitation to the auction.”

That didn’t answer my question.

I followed her to the bedroom. “Try again.”

Lyric glanced back at me, her expression too carefully neutral. “I’m fine.”

She whirled around, eyes flashing with something dangerous. “What do you want me to say, Flynn? That I had a lovely evening? That Moreau was a perfect gentleman?”

I stepped closer, studying her face. The careful composure was slipping, revealing something raw underneath. Something that made my blood run cold.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice dropping to that deadly quiet that even my fellow Army Rangers had known to fear.

She didn’t answer. Just looked away, her throat working as she swallowed.

That’s when I saw it. The diamond bracelet encircling her wrist caught the light as she moved. Something ugly and primal rose inside me. I crossed the space between us in two strides and caught her wrist.

“What did he do?” I kept my voice low, but I could hear the razor edge in it.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” She tried to pull away, but I held firm.

“He gave this to you?”

“Yes. It’s a tracker.”

“Audio?”

“No.” She drew a breath. “He doesn’t trust me, but he wants me.”

I turned her wrist over over with more gentleness than I felt and unclasped the bracelet. The weight of it was obscene in my palm. I tossed it onto the dresser. “That stays off when you’re not with him.”

She looked up at me then, something like relief flashing in her eyes. Her pulse raced beneath my fingers where they still circled her wrist. “Did he kiss you?”

“Flynn, don’t. You can’t?—”

I cut her off with my mouth on hers. Not gentle. Not asking. A claiming kiss that was as much about erasing Moreau’s touch as it was about marking her as mine. I needed to replace whatever he’d done, whatever he’d said, with something real.

She made a sound in the back of her throat—half protest, half surrender—before her hands fisted in my shirt, nails digging into the fabric.

I pulled her closer, one hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her jaw. She arched into me, desperate and needy in a way that made my blood burn hotter. Her lips parted, and I took full advantage, deepening the kiss until we were both breathing hard. Her fingers found the buttons of my shirt, popping several in her haste to get to skin.

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