Page 39 of Shadow's Edge

Her fingers touched the large necklace hanging around her throat. It had a hidden camera in it that was feeding everything back to Data, Preacher, and Duke.

Good, I hope they were taking notes and had seen what he’d just done to her. There was no way they’d let him get away with that if, for some reason, I didn’t get to him first.

“Let’s get a drink,” she said, her voice slipping into a sultry tone.

We moved toward the bar, where rows of crystal glasses gleamed under the chandeliers, filled with golden liquid.

Kyle let out a low whistle. “$450 a bottle,” she murmured.

Disgust curled in my stomach. The sheer amount of wealth and indulgence in this room was nauseating, made worse by the fact that it was all funded by human suffering.

A voice cut through the noise behind us. “Hello, there.”

I turned, and the moment my eyes landed on the man, something flickered in my memory.

“I am Cristóbal,” he said smoothly, a polite, practiced smile on his lips. “And this is Luana.”

The woman beside him looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here, and suddenly, I knew exactly where I’d seen him before.

Remembering the brief Duke had drilled into us, I forced my voice into a smooth, practiced calm.

“I’m Aaron Jones,” I said, extending my hand toward Cristóbal, even though every instinct in my body rebelled against the gesture.

His fingers clamped around mine, his grip tightening in an attempt to assert dominance. His eyes locked onto mine, challenging, waiting for a flicker of weakness, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. My expression remained neutral, my muscles loose, my posture relaxed, and on the outside I looked completely unaffected.

A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion, maybe irritation. And then more of the brief I’d read on him hit me—this was one of the sick bastards who ran a brothel in El Salvador. A low-tier scumbag who thought he was a kingpin when, in reality, he was nothing but an amoeba in an ocean of monsters. The Ghosts had raided his operation last year, dragging a six-year-old girl out before the worst could happen. Not all the victims had been so lucky, but the survivors had been placed with the right people, given therapy, a chance at something better.

The fact that Cristóbal was still standing here, sipping expensive champagne like he hadn’t been responsible for all that suffering, made my blood turn to acid. Then his gaze shifted to Kyle. Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Interest?

No, no fucking way.

Before I could react, Kyle stepped in, closing the distance between them like she was walking into a lover’s embrace, and kissed his cheek.

“Daisy,” she purred, her voice low, sultry—the same tone I was used to hearing in the bedroom.

My fists clenched involuntarily. Any other time, that sound would have me pushing her against a wall, but right now, hearing her use it onhimhad a red haze creeping into my vision.

Cristóbal’s eyes stayed glued to her chest.

What was it with motherfuckers tonight?

“Daisy…” he repeated slowly, rolling the name over his tongue like he was tasting it. “The pleasure is mine.”

He lifted her hand, as if to kiss it like he was some kind of refined gentleman, but before his lips could touch her skin, a loud commotion broke out behind us. Two men stood nose to nose in the far corner, their bodies rigid with tension. One was Hispanic, the other Middle Eastern, both of them draped in gold jewelry like it was supposed to make them important.

Cristóbal chuckled, the sound light, dismissive. “Ah, they are always so hot-headed and eager,” he mused. Then he turned back to us, eyes flicking to Kyle again. “If you’ll excuse me,” his lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile. His gaze slid over Kyle one last time, “Daisy.”

I didn’t move until he was a few steps away, then I reached for Kyle, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her into me, shielding her from the eyes that had lingered too long. Her body stayed relaxed, unconcerned, like she hadn’t just been inspected like a piece of meat at a butcher shop.

I bent my head to her ear.

“What the fuck was that?”I growled lowly, reaching for the glass of champagne we hadn’t touched earlier. I wasn’t planning to drink it, I wouldn’t trust anything in this place, but appearances mattered so I was going to hold it.

Kyle’s response came with a teasing smile as she lifted her own glass. “I was part of the bust.” She sipped delicately, as if we weren’t having this conversation at all. “If I’d hesitated, it would’ve looked suspicious.” Her eyes flicked toward mine. “I’m here to play a part, Jagger, and that’s what I’m doing.”

My grip tightened around the glass, but I kept my face unreadable.

Duke had drilled the plan into us. Get in, get photos of as many of these fuckers as possible, and get out. To blend in, I was playing the role of a buyer, and Kyle was my arm candy—my ‘flavor of the night.’

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