Page 69 of Over the Edge

“Neither do I, Ms. Deveraux.” Was I mistaken, or was that a wince he hide behind his smile? “Perhaps we’ll be bidding against each other.”

“Perhaps.” I took a deliberate sip of champagne. “Though I wouldn’t count on there being an auction for that particular item. I’ve found there’s more than one way to get what I want, and I will do whatever necessary to secure it.”

A flicker of approval crossed his face, so brief I might have imagined it. “I look forward to seeing your methods, then.” He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. His cologne was just as expensive as Moreau’s but much more pleasant, like spice and smoke and silk sheets after midnight—dangerous and deliberately understated. The kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after the man was gone.

“We’re just back-up,” he whispered. “This is your show, Siren.”

Flynn materialized at my side, his body angled slightly between me and Decker. “Ms. Deveraux, Moreau is asking for you.”

Decker’s smile returned. He stepped back, and this time, there was no mistaking the wince and slight limp when he did. No, I wasn’t mistaken before. He was in pain.

Shit. Had he also been wounded in the op that killed Maya? Was that why I hadn’t met him yet? He was on medical leave with Rafe and Leo?

Decker raised his glass in a small salute. “Until later, Ms. Deveraux.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sinclair,” I replied with perfect poise, though my mind was racing.

As Flynn guided me away, his hand rested lightly at the small of my back—a touch so different from Moreau’s possessive grip. Even now, when I’d wounded him so deeply, Flynn’s touch remained respectful. Protective rather than controlling.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.

“Fine.” I kept my smile in place. “Just surprised to see our friends here.”

“Me too.” His hand brushed against mine, a brief, unprofessional touch that sent heat coursing through me despite everything. “Any idea why?”

“Insurance policy,” I murmured, then tilted my head toward where Moreau stood near a hidden doorway, gesturing for his guests’ attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Moreau called, his voice cutting through the chatter. “If you would be so kind as to follow me, it’s time for the evening’s entertainment.”

The guests moved toward him with barely concealed eagerness, champagne forgotten in anticipation of what was to come. I let the current carry me forward, Flynn a steady presence behind me, Decker and Trent somewhere in the crowd.

Whatever Moreau had planned, we were about to see it together.

CHAPTER21

LYRIC

We were herdedlike designer-clad cattle down a curved hallway that descended into a theater at the heart of the fortress. The seats were wide and plush, the asiles lined with subtle lighting that created a sense of drama.

Moreau clearly understood the value of presentation.

“Please, find your seats,” he instructed, his voice amplified by hidden speakers. “The demonstration will begin shortly.”

One of Moreau’s men guided me to the front row. It was the last place I wanted to sit. The seat he led me to was in the middle of the row, trapped by the stage to my front and other guests to either side of me. No easy exits.

But I couldn’t very well turn down a specially reserved seat without pissing Moreau off.

As I lowered myself to the seat, I kept my expression neutral, even bored, despite the anxiety creeping up my spine. A Saudi prince sat to my right and laughed too loudly at something Halston, seated behind us, whispered. To my left, a woman I recognized as a former Russian intelligence officer examined her manicure. Decker was seated beside her. And somewhere behind us, Flynn and Trent were watching, waiting, ready. I wasn’t alone in this snake pit, but that knowledge was doing little to comfort me at the moment.

Moreau took center stage, arms spread wide like a conductor about to lead an orchestra. The lights dimmed, leaving him illuminated in a perfect spotlight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “what I offer you tonight is not just weaponry—it is the future.” He paced the platform with the precision of someone who had rehearsed this performance. “We live in an age of regulation, of treaties, of constraints imposed by those who fear progress. But here, in this room, we recognize a simple truth: the future belongs to those bold enough to seize it.”

A murmur of appreciation rippled through the audience. These people didn’t just want weapons; they wanted permission to desire power without guilt. Moreau was selling them absolution as much as technology.

“Our first offering,” Moreau said, his voice reverberating smoothly through the chamber, “is already here.”

The audience glanced around in confusion. There was nothing on the stage. Nothing in the air.

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