Page 74 of Over the Edge

“Don’t play dumb.” My words came out harsher than I intended. “Moreau. That little dance on the terrace.”

“That ‘little dance’ is me doing my job. You know, the one where I get close enough to Moreau to access Sentinel?”

“There’s close and then there’s what he was suggesting. He wants you in his bed, Lyric.”

“Yeah, it’s called a honeytrap,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought I was a sandwich short of a picnic.

“That isn’t part of the plan.”

“Yes, it is. Always has been. Ask Trent. Or Decker. He probably knows since he’s also apparently part of this team that doesn’t fucking trust me.”

The bitterness in her voice surprised me. “I didn’t know they were coming, either—” I stopped, shook my head. She was trying to distract me. “But that’s not the issue right now.”

“Oh?” Her tone went syrupy sweet. “So, tell me, what is the issue?”

“The job is to bid on Sentinel, not to fuck the arms dealer!”

“Lower your voice,” she whisper-yelled, closing the distance between us. “Sometimes maintaining cover means doing things we’d rather not do. You know this. You’ve done this.”

“Not this.” I jabbed a finger at her. “This isn’t just about the mission for you. This is about proving something. To Ethan. To the team. To yourself.”

She didn’t flinch outwardly, but I saw it in her eyes. “And what if it is? What business is that of yours?”

“Because I care about what happens to you!” My voice cracked. It wasn’t just caring, but I knew if I threw the L-word at her again, it would send her running—and she’d land in Moreau’s bed just to spite me. “I want you safe. I want you to come back from this mission whole, not splintered into pieces because you pushed yourself too far.”

She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that held no humor. “Whole? I haven’t been whole in years, Flynn. That ship sailed a long time ago.”

“Lyric—”

“Get it through your thick skull.” She tapped my forehead with each word. “I make the calls on how I handle my cover. Not you.”

I caught her arm as she tried to move past me. “How far are you willing to go, huh? Where’s the line?”

She whirled and shoved against my chest hard enough to make me step back. “There is no line! There’s just the mission. There’s just the job. There’s just what needs to be done!”

Jesus. She really didn’t believe there was a limit, did she? My gut clenched at the thought of her crossing lines she couldn’t uncross, all for a mission, for approval, for whatever drove her to push herself over every edge.

I stepped closer, eliminating the space between us.

“And what about after?” I asked softly. “When the mission’s over and you’ve crossed every line, compromised every part of yourself, what then? Who are you then, Lyric?”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “It’s my op. My body. My choice.”

“Your op, yeah.” I pulled her in so tight against me until I could feel her shuddering breath on my face and her pounding heart against my chest. I could smell her shampoo, something clean and citrusy, and underneath it, her skin. Steam from the shower still clung to her, making her almost glow in the dim light. “But last night, that pussy was mine. Every whimper. Every goddamn moan. You gave it all to me, and that gives me a say now. No other man is going to touch you while I’m still breathing.”

“You don’t get to decide that. You’re not my handler,” she breathed. “You’re not my keeper. And you’re sure as hell not?—”

“Say it,” I challenged, my face inches from hers. “I’m not your what?”

The silence between us crackled with electricity. Her chest heaved with each breath, and the edge of her towel slipped to show the curve of her breast. I was suddenly, painfully aware of how close we were standing, how little she was wearing, how easy it would be to?—

“You’re not mine,” she whispered, her voice catching on the last word.

Something inside me broke at that—at the wounded defiance in her eyes, at the way she was staring at me like I was both the problem and the solution. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to drag her into my arms and not let go until she understood.

“Yes, I am. Wholly, violently, maddeningly yours. You had me the second you moaned my name, the second your nails clawed down my back and marked me as yours.” I caught her face between my hands, unable to keep myself from touching her any longer. “Even if you don’t want me. Even if you walk out that door and straight into his bed, I’ll still be yours. And God have mercy on the bastard if touches you, because I won’t.”

Her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as she stared up at me. For a heartbeat, I thought she might push me away. Instead, she grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me toward her. Our mouths crashed together with bruising force, teeth clashing before we found our rhythm. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was all fire and fury, a continuation of our argument by other means.

---