Page 92 of Over the Edge

He met my gaze. “Keep talking to him, Lyric. He hears you.”

My lungs remembered how to work again, air rushing in so quickly it made me dizzy. I reached for Flynn’s hand once more, careful to stay out of Alistair’s way.

“That’s it.” I pressed a kiss to his cold fingers. “Keep fighting. We have unfinished business, Shepherd, but I’m not telling you what you want to hear on your deathbed. I won’t say it until you’re healthy. So you keep fucking fighting.”

CHAPTER29

FLYNN

I grittedmy teeth as I yanked the IV from my arm, the sharp sting nothing compared to the deeper ache in my side where Moreau’s knife had sliced through muscle and nicked an artery. Two weeks in this sterile prison was enough. The doctors had their opinions about my recovery timeline, but I’d never been good at following other people’s rules. My duffel bag sat packed and ready on the visitor’s chair—the one where Lyric had spent those first critical nights, though I’d been too drugged to remember much beyond the warmth of her hand in mine.

Morning light slanted through the partially closed blinds, painting stripes across the institutional tile floor. The hospital in Nice was fancy as far as medical facilities went. Private rooms with a view of the Mediterranean for those who could afford it. Or in my case, for those whose shadowy government teams had excellent health insurance. I’d woken early, determined to make my escape before the morning rounds brought more lectures about “recovery protocols” and “physical therapy schedules.”

I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, each movement sending fresh bolts of pain through my ribcage. The neural agent had finally cleared my system, but it had left my muscles twitchy and unreliable. My leg—the one that had taken the dart during the drone attack—still throbbed when I put weight on it. The doctors had used words like “remarkable recovery” and “lucky to be alive,” but all I could think about was getting out of here and finding Lyric.

She’d visited daily at first, sitting silent vigil, her fingers laced through mine as if she could physically anchor me to this world. But then she and the rest of the team had been forced out of France by political tensions. She’s called when she could, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to see her. To hold her. To assure myself she was okay.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted my struggle with my shirt buttons. Before I could respond, Ethan Voss pushed the door open, his entrance as precise and deliberate as everything else about him. His face gave nothing away, but the rigid set of his shoulders told me this wasn’t a social call.

“Going somewhere?”

“Anywhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic and death,” I replied, wincing as I leaned over to grab my shoes. “I have shit to do. Got a problem with that?”

Ethan closed the door behind him, then took up position by the window, arms crossed over his chest. Classic defensive posture. This was going to be interesting.

“The doctors say you’ve got another week, minimum,” he said.

“The doctors can bill Uncle Sam for an empty bed.” I finally managed the last button, the small victory almost worth the fire burning along my ribs. “I appreciate the dramatic rescue and top-notch medical care, but I’m done being poked and prodded.”

Ethan’s jaw worked, a tell I’d learned to read years ago. He was chewing on something he didn’t want to say.

Fine. I’d go first.

“Spit it out, E,” I said, shoving my feet into my boots. “Whatever’s eating you, get it off your chest before I walk out that door.”

Ethan’s expression shifted, the mask of professional detachment cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of concern. “You almost died, Flynn. Twice. On the chopper and again in surgery.”

“Not the first time.” I straightened, ignoring the protest from my ribs. “Won’t be the last.”

“You’re going after her, aren’t you?” Ethan asked, voice carefully neutral.

“Since when do you care about my personal life?”

“Since your ‘personal life’ involves one of my operatives.” Ethan pushed away from the window, his reflection fracturing across the glass as he moved. “She’s been... different after what happened with you on the chopper. When we thought we’d lost you.”

My fingers found the scar on my side, the raised ridge of new tissue still tender beneath my shirt. I remembered fragments of that helicopter ride—pain, voices, the steady pressure of Lyric’s hand in mine. And then nothing but darkness until I’d woken in the recovery room three days later.

“Fuck you, E. You sidelined her, didn’t you?”

A muscle jumped in Ethan’s jaw. “She requested some personal time after the initial debrief. It’s protocol after a mission goes sideways.”

“Bullshit.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “You sidelined her. What, she didn’t play by your precious rulebook? She killed Moreau instead of bringing him in for questioning?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Yeah, right. I know you.” I paced away from him, trying to cool the anger boiling inside me before it exploded. But then—nah, fuck that. I swung around and jabbed a finger at his face. “She’s not Maya. She will never be Maya. She’s her own operative. And a damn good one, considering she completed the mission with zero support from her team leader.”

Ethan’s posture went from rigid to granite. “Sit down and shut the fuck up for a minute.”

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