Page 57 of Over the Edge

I moved to the window, staring out at the glittering coastline of Monte Carlo. All that money, all that glamour, hiding rot and corruption beneath. Kind of like the mission reports that buried the truth under bureaucratic bullshit.

“Sana’a, Yemen. Seven years ago.” I kept my back to her, watching her reflection in the window instead of turning to face her directly. “Ethan was running a covert extraction. High-value asset with intel on terrorist cells operating throughout the region. I was his intelligence officer.”

I felt her shift behind me, but she didn’t speak. Waiting. Patient. Like she knew this wasn’t going to be easy for me.

“The asset had information on weapons deals, personnel movements, financial networks—the kind of intelligence that could cripple operations across three countries.”

I closed my eyes briefly, the memories still razor-sharp despite the years. The heat. The dust. The coppery tang of blood in my mouth.

“My intel was solid. I’d spent three months mapping security rotations, identifying weak points, and tracking the movement patterns of everyone in that compound. But what I didn’t know—what none of us knew—was that someone had sold us out.”

“And people died,” she said quietly.

I turned from the window to find Lyric watching me. She hadn’t moved, arms still crossed, and her expression was still guarded, but I sensed a thawing in the ice.

“Three good men. Ambushed the moment they breached the compound.” The memory crashed over me—gunfire, shouting, the radio crackling with desperate calls for backup. “The asset was already dead when they got there. Executed. The whole thing was a setup.”

Her brow furrowed. “Ethan blames you?”

“Ha, yeah.” I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to scrub away the memories. “But, also, no. Saying he blames me is too simplistic for what happened. The truth is, it’s complicated. He was team leader. The call to continue the mission after the initial ambush was his, but I was the one who pushed for it.”

I crossed to the bar and poured two fingers of whiskey, needing something to steady the tremor in my hands. “I told him the intel was still valuable, even without the asset. I insisted we could still complete the objective, and Ethan trusted my judgment. He always had before.” I knocked back the whiskey in one burning swallow. “But it was chaos. The team was pinned down. Ethan made the call to abort, but I was so sure there were documents, hard drives, information we could salvage.” I turned the glass in my hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “So I ignored his order to retreat, and I got shot for my trouble.”

Lyric’s eyes widened slightly. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” I set the glass down and lifted my shirt, revealing the puckered scar just below my ribs. She must have seen it last night—it was hard to miss—but never asked about it. “Caught a round that shredded my liver. By all rights, I should have bled out in that compound.”

She moved closer almost unconsciously, her eyes fixed on the scar. “But you didn’t.”

“No.” I lowered my shirt, remembering the pain, the certainty that I was dying. “Because Ethan came back for me. Against protocol. Against orders. He led three men back into that death trap. And he and I were the only ones who made it out. Barely. He carried me out through a hail of gunfire. He didn’t leave me behind, even though every manual, every protocol, every ounce of common sense said he should have. I dug my own grave, and he should’ve let me lie in it.”

Lyric’s expression softened just a fraction. “He chose to go back.”

“Yeah. That’s what makes it worse.” I knocked back the second drink, welcoming the burn. “We’ve known each other since Ranger School. Saved each other’s asses more times than I can count. When he made team leader on that Yemen op, I was his first pick. He trusted me, and I got his men killed. So when I healed up, I went freelance. Figured if I only had to worry about my own neck, I couldn’t get anyone else killed.”

Lyric’s gaze was steady. “And now he keeps you arm’s length, but still calls when he needs you.”

“Yeah.” I downed the second whiskey, welcoming the burn. “He can’t forgive me, but he knows I’m loyal. I owe him a debt I can never repay.”

“That’s kind of bullshit.”

A laugh burst out of me at her blunt assessment. “You think?”

“I do.” She moved closer. “You both made choices that day. He chose to trust your intel. He chose to go back for you. And yes, you chose to push forward when you should have retreated. But war is messy. Operations fail. And from what I’ve seen, you’d have done the same for him if your roles were reversed. You’d have gone back.”

I would’ve been thrilled to see the ice in her eyes thawing if I hadn’t had to flay myself open to get that hint of warmth again. As it was, I felt naked and raw in a way I hadn’t in years. And I hated it.

“Yeah, in a heartbeat,” I admitted roughly. “But how do you know that?”

“Because, now, you keep coming back. You keep jumping when he says jump and taking jobs you don’t want. For him. Because you love him, even when he’s an ass.”

I turned away from her, staring back out at the glittering coastline. Her words hit too close to home, like a bullet finding the gap in body armor.

“Love’s a strong word,” I muttered, but we both knew she was right.

“If not love, then why else do you keep coming back?” She moved to stand beside me at the window, close enough that I could feel the heat of her without touching.

I shrugged, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. “Maybe I miss his sunny personality.”

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