Page 77 of Over the Edge

I stroked a hand over her hair and down her back. “What happened to her?”

“We traveled a lot as kids. Our mom was a commercial airline pilot. We never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots. But we had each other.” Her voice changed when she spoke about her sister, softening around the edges, warming with memories. “She was everything I wasn’t—outgoing, fearless, immediately likable. She collected friends the way other kids collected shells or rocks.”

I remained silent, instinctively knowing that what she needed most was someone to listen.

“When I was fifteen, we were staying in Istanbul. I thought I was so mature, so worldly.” Bitterness crept into her tone. “Mom was flying, so it was just the two of us in this little apartment near the Spice Bazaar. One afternoon, we went exploring. The market was crowded, noisy. I noticed this man acting strangely, following other tourists, watching them. I thought I was being so clever, playing detective.”

Her fingers tightened on the sheet, knuckles going white. “I followed him, convinced I was uncovering some criminal plot. I was so focused on the wrong threat that I didn’t notice Elodie had wandered off. When I turned around, she was gone.”

A cold weight settled in my stomach, anticipating where this story was heading.

“We reported it immediately. The local police, Interpol, the American embassy… everyone was involved. But she just... vanished.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Three years later, they found her body in a shallow grave outside the city. Three years of hoping, of imagining she was alive somewhere, and then—nothing.”

I tightened my arms around her, wishing I could absorb some of her pain. “It wasn’t your fault, Lyric.”

“That’s what everyone said,” she replied, her voice hollow. “My mother never blamed me, not once. But she started drinking heavily and—I knew what she really thought. One moment of distraction. One split second where I took my eyes off her, and she was gone forever.”

“You were a child.”

“I was responsible for her,” she countered, those fierce green eyes meeting mine. There was so much pain there, so much guilt. “I can’t afford distractions, Flynn. I can’t let myself feel too much, care too much, because that’s when people die.”

Everything clicked into place—her resistance to connection, her absolute focus on the mission, her reluctance to let anyone close. She wasn’t cold; she was terrified. Terrified of making the same mistake again, of losing someone else she cared about.

I cupped her face in my hands. “Listen to me, princess. What happened to your sister was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault. You’ve been punishing yourself for years for something you couldn’t control.”

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, but there was less conviction in her voice.

“Remember who you’re talking to here.” I stroked my thumb across her cheekbone, wiping away moisture she probably didn’t even realize was there. “After Yemen, I blamed myself for every man we lost. I thought if I’d just been smarter, faster, better, they might have lived. It took me years to realize that blame doesn’t bring anyone back. It just stops you from living.”

She leaned into my touch, her eyes drifting closed. When she opened them again, I saw the ice melt away.

“Flynn, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said, her voice taking on a new urgency. “Earlier, on the yacht, I lied when I said?—”

She broke off and hissed in pain.

“What?” I sat up, and something stung my neck. I slapped at it reflexively, my hand coming away with a tiny metallic speck no bigger than a grain of rice.

Lyric’s eyes widened. “Nanodrones. One of the prototypes for sale tonight.”

A strange numbness was spreading from the injection site. I tried to climb off the bed, go for my weapon where it had landed with my pants, but my limbs felt leaden, unresponsive. My body was betraying me, muscles going slack even as I fought against it.

The door burst open, and Moreau walked in, flanked by four armed guards. His smile was pure satisfaction as he surveyed the scene—both of us naked, paralyzed, vulnerable.

“Uh-oh, the bodyguard caught in a compromising position with his client.” Moreau’s voice was silky with amusement. He tsked. “How unprofessional.”

I tried to tell him to fuck off, but my tongue was swollen, useless.

Beside me, Lyric’s eyes blazed with fury, the only part of her still fully under her control.

“The nanodrones are quite remarkable, aren’t they?” Moreau continued conversationally, circling the bed like a shark. “Programmable to deliver precise doses of various compounds. This particular batch carried the neural disruptor from my earlier demonstration.” He crouched beside me, his face inches from mine. “How does it feel, Mr. Shepherd, for your mind to be completely clear while your body is entirely helpless?”

The helplessness was worse than anything I’d ever experienced. Not even the agony of Yemen compared to watching, fully conscious but immobile, as Moreau moved from me to Lyric, his predatory gaze sliding over her naked body.

“Such a waste,” he murmured.

He reached out, his manicured fingers brushing across Lyric’s breast with deliberate slowness. My vision tunneled, rage building with nowhere to go as he circled her nipple, watching it harden against her will.

“Magnificent,” he murmured, pinching lightly, his eyes flicking to mine to ensure I was watching. “She has exquisite skin, doesn’t she? So responsive.”

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