Page 88 of Over the Edge

Flynn went rigid, his whole body tensing like a bowstring pulled to breaking. His finger tightened on the trigger, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. I could see him fighting himself—the professional operative against the man who wanted nothing more than to splatter Moreau’s brains across the dock for what he’d done to me.

Then he saw me standing there, and something shifted in his expression. Without a word, he stepped back and extended the gun toward me, grip first

“Your body, your choice,” Flynn said hoarsely, extending the gun toward me.

Our eyes met, and in that moment, I understood. This wasn’t only about giving me agency or control; this was Flynn recognizing his own darkness and choosing not to surrender to it.

I took the weapon from him, my fingers brushing his. The metal was warm from his grip.

Moreau’s eyes widened slightly as I leveled the weapon at his head, my arm steady despite everything my body had endured in the past eight hours. He tried to maintain his arrogant composure, but I saw the first flicker of genuine fear in his eyes.

“How does it feel to be completely helpless?” I asked. “To know your life depends entirely on someone else’s mercy?”

“You won’t shoot me,” Moreau said, though his confidence was cracking around the edges. “Your people need me alive. For information. For?—”

“No,” I interrupted, taking another step closer until the barrel of the gun rested against his forehead.

His throat worked as he swallowed. “Ms. Renard, be reasonable?—”

“You put your hands on me while I couldn’t move.” The memory of his touch crawled across my skin like insects. “You thought that made me yours.”

Behind me, I heard the rest of the team approaching—Ethan’s voice calling out orders, Trent’s heavy footsteps hitting the dock. But they seemed distant, unimportant. There was only Moreau’s fear-filled eyes, the warm metal of the gun in my hand, and the absolute certainty of what needed to be done.

I fired.

The gunshot echoed across the water, a sharp crack that hung in the air before fading into the distant sounds of chaos still emanating from the compound. Moreau crumpled, his body making a dull thud against the deck. The neat hole between his eyes leaked a thin trickle of blood, surprisingly little for the damage the bullet had done going out the back of his skull. I lowered the gun slowly, my arm feeling strangely heavy now that the deed was done.

“Lyric.” Flynn’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. He stood beside me, swaying, his complexion pale beneath the mixture of blood and grime. What was left of his shirt was soaked through with blood where Moreau’s blade had caught him.

His legs gave out.

“Flynn!” I let go of the gun and dropped down beside him, cradling his head in my lap.

The knife wound was deep, still seeping blood at an alarming rate. The neurodart puncture in his shoulder was swollen and angry, the flesh around it discolored from the agent’s effects. His injured leg was trembling with fine muscle spasms—neural pathways still misfiring from the drug.

“‘M fine,” he mumbled, clearly not fine at all. “Check the case. Make sure… intact.”

“The case doesn’t matter. Sentinel’s gone,” I told him, tearing a strip of fabric from my already ruined dress to press against his bleeding side.

He hissed in a breath. “Doubt it. More… of those… fuckers… out there… somewhere.”

He was probably right, but I didn’t care. “Shh. Stop talking and stay still. You’re losing too much blood.”

His hand caught mine, grip still strong despite his condition. His eyes, although clouded with pain, focused on my face with fierce intensity. “Are you hurt?”

The question nearly undid me. After everything he’d endured, his first thought was still for my safety. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak as a wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm the clinical detachment I’d been holding onto.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t protect you.”

I knew he meant what had happened when we were both paralyzed, helpless. The violation I’d experienced while unable to move or resist. The memory was there, a dark shadow at the edges of my mind that I’d have to face eventually. But not now. Not here.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I brushed my fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “We’re alive. We completed the mission. That’s all that matters.”

But it wasn’t all that mattered, and we both knew it. I’d been so close to telling him I loved him before the drones attacked. The words were still there, waiting to be spoken, but I couldn’t get them past the growing lump in my throat.

Alistair dropped to his knees beside me and ripped open his medical kit, his expression shifting from one of professional assessment to alarm as he took in Flynn’s condition. “Jesus Christ.”

“You should… see the… other guy,” Flynn replied weakly, attempting a bloody smile that turned into a grimace.

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