Page 78 of Over the Edge

Lyric’s eyes met mine, filled with rage. I clung to that connection, the only one left to us as Moreau continued his violation.

A cruel smile twisted his lips as he dragged his hand down her stomach, tracing the dip of her navel, following the slight curve of her abdomen. “Such a shame we couldn’t come to a more civilized arrangement, Ms. Deveraux.” His palm continued its journey downward, fingers dipping between her legs. “Or should I say, Agent Renard?”

Lyric’s eyes screamed.

A cold, sick feeling spread through me. Moreau was getting off on this, and I realized with cold certainty this wasn’t the first time he’d used this paralytic on a woman.

He withdrew his hand and wiped his fingers on the sheet with a theatrical grimace. “Tainted goods now, I’m afraid. Such a pity.”

If I could have moved, I would have torn his throat out with my bare hands. Instead, I lay there, helpless, as he straightened and adjusted his cuffs.

“Bring them,” he ordered his men. “And find the others. I want every member of their team in custody before the auction starts.”

CHAPTER25

TRENT

The auction openedwith a pedophile’s wet dream.

Lot Number One was a prototype surveillance drone disguised as a cartoon bumblebee.

Marketed as an “educational engagement tool with embedded safety protocols,” it was cute enough to pass inspection in a kindergarten and small enough to nestle beside a crib mobile. The specs boasted facial recognition, real-time location tracking, and proximity-activated explosives—because why stop at watching when you can also erase the evidence?

The room buzzed with interest. One buyer inquired about the possibility of deploying it in refugee camps. Another asked about its audio feed specifically for “remote behavioral assessment.”

These people toasted pedophilia over champagne.

I wanted to put a bullet in every one of them.

But I blocked it out. Let it all blur into meaningless noise. Crystal glasses clinking, the low hum of whispered deals struck by people with too much money and not enough soul. I stood with my back to the wall, scanning the crowd. My stance was relaxed, hands clasped in front of me like any good bodyguard. But my eyes never stopped moving. Three exits. Twenty-eight guests. Fourteen guards. Two snipers overhead, trying to blend in. I clocked them the second we walked in.

Decker was working the crowd a few feet away, playing the part of the arms dealer he used to be. He laughed at something the Chinese dealer said after winning the first item, raising his champagne in mock toast.

In that moment, I understood Nolan’s distrust of him. He fit in too well with these people. He was too comfortable in their skin, like he’d never fully shed it himself, like slipping back into this world didn’t cost him a thing.

The next item was a neurostim collar marketed for “enhanced obedience.” Translation: a slave who didn’t know they were enslaved. The interest was explosive, bidding fierce. Even Decker joined in, and he seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.

I exhaled hard and blocked it out, and my thoughts slipped—like they had so often recently—to Evelyn Phillips and the little girl I’d lived with for two years while embedded in a cult that nearly triggered the apocalypse they were praying for.

Fuck.

Why did that woman continue to haunt me?

It had been a month since the extraction. She should be out of my system by now. She wasn’t even my type. Too quiet. Too broken. Too many complications.

I shouldn’t care. They were part of the job. Just another mission.

But, damn it all to hell, I did care. Too much. I wondered if Evelyn was sleeping through the night, or if she still startled at shadows. If the girl, Emma, still refused to let go of her hand.

I’d put them in that safe house myself. New names, new identities, new lives. No contact. No trace. And still, I couldn’t shake the weight of that promise I’d made to them:You’re safe now.

The bidding reached a fever pitch, pulling me back to the present. Three million for a collar that could turn a human being into a puppet.

I tensed as the room erupted in applause. The buyer—some European aristocrat with old money and older sins—smiled like he’d just acquired a prized thoroughbred. Next to him, his companion, a woman half his age with dead eyes, applauded mechanically.

A sudden prickle of instinct skated along the back of my neck and had me straightening away from the wall, watching the crowd more closely. It was a sense, low and sharp, that something had shifted around me. A gut instinct I’d learned not to question.

I scanned the room again, and realization hit.

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