9. Lyric
CHAPTER 9
LYRIC
The debrief had been mercifully short.
Ethan didn’t ask what I was doing in Flynn’s hotel room. He didn’t need to—he wasn’t stupid, and his glare had spoken volumes. But to my surprise, he didn’t pull me from the op. Didn’t cancel the meeting with Moreau. In fact, he agreed it was our best shot at securing an invite to the auction.
A win, technically.
Except now I had a handler.
The team had set up in Flynn’s hotel, taking over several adjoining rooms to form a command center. Now, Ethan wanted check-ins after every contact and updates before and after every meeting. Real-time surveillance from the tracker Ozzy embedded in my watch. I was supposed to improvise like a good little spy, but not too much. Blend in, seduce, manipulate—but only within parameters he’d approved in advance.
Like I was a marionette.
I didn’t know if he was reacting to Maya’s death or punishing me for not being her, but either way, it was clear Ethan didn’t trust me. Not completely.
And that made two of us. I’ve worked with men balancing on the razor’s edge of burnout before, and it never ended well.
I took a long, steadying breath, but it didn’t settle the knot twisting in my gut.
Ethan wanted Elisa Deveraux—Maya’s polished creation, all smooth edges and effortless seduction. And I could be her. God, I’d become her so convincingly, even I wasn’t always sure where she ended and I began. But Elisa wasn’t a person. She was a performance. A product of grief and necessity and carefully calibrated control.
And tonight, I had to sell that performance to a man who dealt in death like it was currency.
There wouldn’t be backup. No safety net. No one waiting in the wings if I flinched at the wrong moment or said the wrong thing. Just me, Moreau, and whatever price he decided I was worth.
So I braced myself.
And became her.
The dress I chose for dinner was a black silk sheath with Elisa’s signature plunging neckline and a slit that reached up to my thigh. I pulled it on like armor, smoothing the fabric as I studied my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me was composed, polished, every inch the kind of woman a man like Moreau would want to own.
I caught movement in the mirror and lifted my gaze to meet Flynn’s. He lounged in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes stormy. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since we left the team, watching me like he was one wrong breath away from detonating.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said finally, voice low and rough.
I reached for my earrings, sliding the delicate diamonds into place without breaking eye contact in the mirror. “Yes, I do.”
His gaze swept over me, but for once it wasn’t cocky or appreciative. It was angry. Possessive. “Moreau’s a predator. You know that, right?”
“Of course I do.”
Flynn growled under his breath. “Then maybe don’t dress like you’re inviting him to take a bite.”
“Bait needs to be appetizing.”
He pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance between us in two strides, the heat of him like a bonfire. “You’re playing a dangerous game with someone who doesn’t follow the rules.”
“That’s the job.”
“No,” he bit out. “The job is getting Sentinel out of his hands. It’s not…” He cut himself off, but I already knew what he was going to say.
It’s not letting him touch me. Not letting him own me.
My lips tightened. “If that’s what it takes to get the invite, I’ll do it.”
His eyes went molten. “The hell you will.”
I turned to face him fully, temper flaring. “Excuse me?”
“If he puts his hands on you,” Flynn said, low and lethal, “I’ll break every bone in his body.”
My heart kicked hard against my ribs. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He didn’t back down and crowded me against the vanity. I hated him for using his bigger size against me. I hated myself more for the heat pooling in my core at the possessive gleam in his eyes.
“I’m your backup on this op.” His voice dropped to that dangerous register that made my skin tingle. “Your safety is my responsibility.”
“My safety, not my virtue.” I tried to maintain a professional detachment, but my voice came out breathier than I’d intended. “I can handle Moreau.”
Flynn’s fingers brushed my bare shoulder, featherlight but searing. “I don’t want him laying a hand on you, Lyric. If he tries, I’ll put him in the ground.”
Heat surged through me. “You don’t own me.”
“No,” he said, eyes blazing. “But I want to. God help me, I fucking want to.”
The words landed between us like a match dropped on gasoline. My breath caught. My blood roared. Every nerve ending went white-hot with fury—and something far, far worse.
Need.
I curled my hands into fists at my sides to keep from touching him. “You don’t get to go all caveman on me just because we almost fucked. I have a job to do, and I’ll do whatever needs to be done to make sure this op is successful.”
“So you plan to fuck him?”
My stomach curdled at the thought. Before this afternoon, I’d known it was a possibility—hell, a probability that I’d have to go to bed with Moreau to secure an invitation to his auction. Now with the memory of Flynn’s lips still fresh in my mind, the idea of Moreau’s hands and mouth on my skin made me sick.
I pressed my palms against his chest, not quite pushing him away but establishing distance. His heart hammered beneath my fingers. “No, I don’t plan to fuck him. But I don’t plan to let him hand Sentinel to someone who’ll use it to kill innocent people either, so if I have to take him to bed, I will. It’s the job.”
Flynn’s jaw worked. For a split-second, I thought he might kiss me again, might crowd me back against the vanity and finish what we’d started in his hotel room. Part of me wanted him to, wanted the decision taken out of my hands.
Instead, he stepped back, leaving me cold where his heat had been.
I stayed frozen, breath shallow, pulse still thrumming from the contact.
The air between us crackled—not just with want and fury, but something raw and dangerous I didn’t dare name. I hated that he’d gotten under my skin. Hated the way my heart still slammed against my ribs, the way my hands still tingled where they’d touched him.
And most of all, I hated that when he pulled away, some reckless part of me wanted to close the distance again.
But I didn’t move.
Because if I let him matter—if I let this matter—I’d lose the edge I needed to survive what came next.
So I did what I always did. I put on the mask.
I turned back to the mirror and reached for my lipstick.
He didn’t answer, but I could feel him watching me as I applied the red, my favorite shade. The one that always looked like war paint.
“You don’t have to prove anything to them,” he said quietly. “Not to Ethan. Not to anyone.”
I capped the lipstick with a click and forced a bright smile into my voice. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I’ve got this.”
I grabbed my clutch, my confidence, and what was left of my composure, and walked toward the door.
Flynn didn’t try to stop me.
And I didn’t turn back.
Because if I looked at him now, I wouldn’t go.
And failure wasn’t an option.