Page 67 of Over the Edge

Throughout it all, I was acutely aware of two sets of eyes following my every move. Flynn’s—steady, watchful—and Moreau’s—calculating, hungry, never straying far from me.

I excused myself from a tedious conversation with an Eastern European arms dealer and made my way to the terrace for air. The night was cool but humid, the scent of salt and exotic flowers heavy on the breeze. Below, the Mediterranean stretched black and endless, dotted with the lights of distant ships.

“Playing your part beautifully, I see.”

I turned to find Flynn behind me, close enough to speak privately but maintaining a professional distance.

“That’s the job,” I replied, keeping my voice light for any listening ears.

His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I glimpsed the raw hurt beneath his professional mask. “Is that what you’ve been doing with me? Playing a part?”

Before I could respond, I spotted Moreau approaching and backed away from Flynn.

“Ms. Deveraux. You’re neglecting your host.”

I turned, forcing a smile. “My apologies. I was just admiring your stunning view.”

“There are better views inside,” he replied, his hand sliding to the small of my back as he guided me toward the house. “I have something special to show my most valued guests. Alone.” He shot a look at Flynn. “I assure you, Mr. Mercer, I’ll take very good care of her.”

None of us missed the double entendre in his words.

I allowed myself to be led, casting one last glance over my shoulder at Flynn. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes burned with a promise.

I would not be facing this snake pit alone.

As we returned to the crowded ballroom, Moreau’s hand remained possessively splayed across my lower back. Every instinct screamed at me to twist his wrist until bones cracked, but Elisa Deveraux would never. She’d smile her enigmatic smile, drop her shoulders just slightly to suggest receptiveness without promise. So that’s what I did, even as my skin crawled beneath his touch. I scanned the room, noting Flynn had positioned himself near the bar with clear sightlines to me. His face remained professionally blank, but his eyes never left us—a predator tracking its prey.

Or… maybe its mate.

I pushed that thought away and focused on the gathering of war criminals and arms dealers laughing over champagne like they were at a charity gala instead of a weapons auction.

“More champagne?” Moreau signaled a server without waiting for my response. The server appeared instantly, holding out his tray with a slight bow.

I accepted the crystal flute, using the movement to create distance between us. “Thank you.”

A commotion at the entrance drew everyone’s attention. The security detail at the door was suddenly alert. Vidal cut a path through the crowd and headed straight for Moreau. Once he reached us, he whispered something that made Moreau’s eyebrows rise.

“Interesting. It seems we have an unexpected guest,” he said to me, then nodded to Vidal. “He’s unexpected, but not uninvited. Let him in.”

A few moments later, the crowd parted like the Red Sea for a man who oozed money and arrogance.

“It’s the Ace of Spades,” someone whispered nearby, and I felt the room’s energy shift.

Unlike the other guests who projected their power through volume or posturing, he radiated quiet, lethal competence. He moved with the unhurried grace of a predator who knew he had no natural enemies, acknowledging greetings with slight nods or the barest hint of a smile. His suit was a deep charcoal gray with a subtle sheen and cut to kill. No tie. Collar open, showing a hint of tanned skin on his chiseled chest. His face was all angles, shadowed with stubble that made him look roguish rather than sloppy, and his dark blond hair was styled in that carefully disheveled way that suggested he’d just finished fucking someone senseless. Steel gray eyes swept the room in one economical glance, missing nothing, cataloging everything.

And a half-step behind him, silent as a shadow, was Trent Dalton, his face impassive.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I didn’t let my shock show. Elisa wouldn’t recognize these men, so I maintained my expression of mild curiosity even as my mind raced. No one had told me Trent was coming. And, if I had to guess, the man with him was the mysterious Decker that Nolan didn’t like.

No one had said anything about backup. The implication was clear: they didn’t trust me to handle this alone.

Decker looked exactly like what he was pretending to be—a high-level arms dealer with connections in every dark corner of the world.

Or maybe he wasn’t pretending?

Trent played his part perfectly, the silent enforcer whose mere presence was enough to make people step back.

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