Page 6 of Shadow's Edge

“To be fair,” I added, smirking, “it could be a blonde bush or a brown bush, and it would still make you shudder.”

Still chuckling, he reached for the bottle, snagging a glass from behind the bar before pouring himself a small measure. He held it up, giving me a look that was half-amused, half-challenging.

“At least it wasn’t a red bush.”

And just like that, the tension from earlier faded, the weight of the mission temporarily forgotten in the warmth of whiskey and unexpected company. I choked hard on the whiskey, the burn of it shooting straight down the wrong pipe. Instantly, my lungs ignited in protest, and I started coughing, trying to clear the fiery liquid while simultaneously resisting the urge to scream at the pain radiating from my ribs. Each hacking cough felt like a knife twisting into my side.

“Ribs…” I wheezed out between coughs, wincing as I clutched my aching torso.

“What?” Jagger leaned in closer, his voice low, his breath warm against my cheek. I’d be lying if I said he didn’t smell damn good—clean, masculine, like leather and a hint of spice, and a stark contrast to the Knights I had known in the past. Most of themreeked of cigarettes, motor oil, and enough sweat to fry an order of fries in their greasy hair.

“She busted her ribs,” Smokey, the ever-nosy bastard, chimed in, leaning past me to address Jagger directly.

I watched up close as Jagger’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in irritation. Before I could react, he reached out and lifted the side of my tank, exposing my bruised side. Normally, I’d have broken his hand for a move like that, but maybe the damn Black Bush was making me more tolerant. Or maybe it washim.

His sharp intake of breath was followed by a slow, angry hiss. Yeah, he’d seen the damage. The scratches were healing, but the deep bruising that stretched across my ribs told the real story, one that still hurt like hell.

“Someone did this to you?” His voice was low, rough, tight with barely contained fury.

I shrugged, reaching for my whiskey and nudging Smokey out of the way to grab the bottle. “Perk of the job.”

“Who?” The single word was a challenge and an offer. He wasn’t asking for clarification—he was asking for a name so he could go and personally rearrange someone’s face.

“A guy had an RPG and fired at them,” Smokey jumped in again, clearly enjoying the show. “It hit the wall, and if it hadn’t been for Match jumping on top of her”—he motioned toward Match, who was now glaring daggers in his direction— “I reckon we’d have been visiting her in the ICU.”

That was a bit dramatic, in my opinion, but I wasn’t about to start debating life-and-death scenarios with strangers. So, I stayed quiet, sipping my whiskey and letting the burn settle inmy stomach while trying to push the past few weeks out of my mind.

Duke had given clearance on what we could share with the Knights, but I still preferred to keep my shit locked down and only discuss things like this with Indigo. At the end of the day, this guy—in fact, this whole MC—belonged to Preacher. I didn’t trust Preacher with jack shit, so why the hell would I trust any ofthemwith information that could blow back on my team?

Jagger’s fingers drummed lightly against the bar as he studied me, spinning his glass idly. “Why do you do it?”

I tilted my head slightly, assessing him. “There are things out there that the public will hopefully never know about,” I kept my voice quiet but firm. “Things that would keep you awake for weeks. I’ll fight until my last breath to make sure they never hit our shores.”

His eyes flickered at that, something unreadable shifting behind them.

“The public doesn’t even know the surface of it,” I continued. “Then there’s the trafficking. I can help with all of that, so I do.”

Jagger nodded slowly, taking in my words. There was something about the way he looked at me in that moment, like he understood more than he was letting on. Like he wasn’t just hearing my words but feeling them.

Then, with a smirk, I downed the last of my whiskey and grinned at him. “And I get to play with fucking awesome toys.”

Jagger exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he lifted his own glass in a silent toast before taking a sip.

Pushing up from my stool, I grabbed the bottle of Black Bush and waved it at him as I turned toward the hallway. “See you around, whiskey snob.”

I heard the faint sound of his chuckle behind me as I made my way toward my room, my body already screaming for sleep. I needed at least eight hours tonight, double what I usually got, and then I’d be ready to go again.

Footsteps followed behind me, and I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Match. After missions, it was our unspoken rule—we bunked in the same room, watched each other’s backs through the nightmares that shadowed us. Those bastards were brutal, and I felt for the soldiers who didn’t have someone to keep them anchored when the demons clawed their way into the dark.

One of my friends, Hunter, had lost a couple of men on his last mission. He’d barely made it out himself after getting caught in a car bomb. I couldn’t imagine the hell his nightmares put him through, but I knew they had to be soul-crushing. Whatever was left of him that hadn’t already been destroyed in the explosion was probably being eaten alive from the inside out.

I made a mental note to call him, to check in.

Pushing the thoughts away, I headed into my room while Match made up the couch. Sleeping in this space was going to be weird as hell, but for the first time in a long time, I had a real bed, and no matter how messed up my head was, that was something I could work with.

Getting into bed, I turned out the light once Match was settled, pulling the blanket up as I buried my head into the pillow. The exhaustion from the day should have been enough to knockme out, but my mind had other plans. The images from past missions bled into old memories of this place, a jumbled mess of violence, heat, and familiar walls.

And then, cutting through it all, was Jagger’s laughter.

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