Page 96 of Over the Edge

Normally, his expression was as unreadable as a brick wall, but when he saw me, his dark eyes softened by a fraction, and his mouth tugged into the barest suggestion of a smile.

“Renard,” he said in his thick Boston accent. He was a gruff man with a full, neatly trimmed beard and dark, intense eyes that missed nothing. His nod of acknowledgment might as well have been a bear hug and a fruit basket.

“Rafe,” I replied, matching his tone. “How’s the leg?”

He scowled at his cast. “Gonna cut the fucking thing off.”

I looked down at the plaster and couldn’t quite smother my laugh. Someone—probably Nolan—had drawn a big cartoon-style dynamite stick with a lit fuse, labeled “Sparky’s Big Boom Stick.” Under that was a gothic tombstone with “Here Lies Rafe’s Social Life. Killed by Eye Contact” inscribed on it.

“Nolan got to you while you were sleeping, didn’t he?”

Rafe grumbled.

“I mean, that tombstone’s pretty good.”

“Oh, that was my contribution,” Leo Santiago said, appearing from the break room, two coffee mugs in hand. He deposited one in front of Rafe, then flashed a brilliant smile.

And, okay, yes, I was momentarily dazzled. He was the prettiest man I’d ever seen. Where Rafe was all hard edges and stoicism, Leo was charm personified.

Leo had suffered a bad concussion at the same time Rafe broke his leg, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. His dark hair was artfully tousled, his lean frame casually propped against the workstation as if he were posing for a magazine shoot rather than recovering from a traumatic brain injury.

“Welcome home, Siren,” Leo said, his voice carrying the barest hint of a Spanish accent. “I hear you had an interesting first mission. Killed Moreau, saved the world, and broke Shepherd’s heart all in one mission. Impressive efficiency.”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t break his heart.”

“No?” Leo pulled himself up to sit on Rafe’s desk, ignoring the other man’s annoyed grunt. “Then how is our resident lone wolf?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He disappeared.”

And it still hurt. He’d told me—repeatedly—he loved me and wasn’t going anywhere, but now he was gone without so much as a “see ya, it was fun.”

Leo and Rafe exchanged a look I couldn’t quite interpret.

“That tracks,” Rafe muttered.

A knot of emotion swelled in my throat. Oh, no. I had to go before I burst out crying in front of these guys.

I motioned vaguely toward the hallway. “I need to check in with Ethan.”

“He’s waiting for you,” Leo confirmed, his magazine-worthy smile softening to something more genuine. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here, Lyric. The team needs you.”

The unexpected sincerity caught me off guard, and I managed only a quick nod before heading down the corridor toward Ethan’s office. The knot in my throat had grown, making it difficult to swallow. Flynn’s absence was a hollow space beneath my ribs that shouldn’t exist after such a short time together. We’d known each other for a matter of weeks, yet somehow he’d carved out a place inside me that now ached with emptiness.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Operatives didn’t get attached. It was the first rule of survival in our line of work.

Nolan spotted me as I crossed the main operations floor, headed toward Ethan’s office. He was sprawled in a chair at his usual station, feet propped on the desk, a protein shake in one hand and a tablet in the other. When he looked up, his perpetual smirk softened.

“Well, if it isn’t our resident femme fatale,” he called, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone within earshot. “Are you back for good or just here for more of Preacher’s tender loving care? I hear his sponge baths are exceptional.”

“I’ve been cleared for work.” I rolled my eyes, but honestly, I was relieved for the distraction. Joking, I could do. The rest of it… I hadn’t figured out yet. “You just love making poor Alistair uncomfortable, don’t you?”

“Someone’s gotta pull that stick out of his arse,” Nolan replied, swinging his feet down and rising with an exaggerated stretch. “Besides, I’m Irish. Antagonizing clerics is practically a national pastime.”

“I’m not a cleric,” came Alistair’s drawl as he emerged from the office I’d been aiming for.

Like Leo and Nolan, the doctor’s expression softened when his gaze landed on me, and I suddenly wished they’d all stop doing that. I didn’t want them to be soft and sensitive. I wanted them to treat me like one of the guys.

“Siren. Pleased to see you up and about. Your shoulder healing properly?”

---