Bonds of Justice

CHAPTER 31

The main Enforcement station in San Francisco was a sprawling complex full to the brim with humanity—and at present, a Psy assassin.

Sophia took a deep breath as they were led down through the bull pen and to the short-term holding facilities at the back of the station. So many voices, so many people, so many memories and dreams—it was a ceaseless buzz in her head, her shields already strained after the time spent in the enclosed space of the airjet.

Though she kept her arms tight to her body, her face turned away, people still bumped into her. She’d managed to avoid skin-to-skin contact so far—mostly because Max had been using his own body to shield hers in the most subtle of ways, but it was impossible to do anything but grit her teeth against the onslaught of psychic noise.

Hopes and wishes. Hates and loves. Joys and sorrows.

Even though she couldn’t read any specific thoughts, she could feel the colossal weight of those thoughts battering at her. The pressure against her shields was immense—she was terrified it would create a break, crushing her under an avalanche of other people’s nightmares.

“Here you go.” The cop who’d escorted them stopped in front of a cell. “He hasn’t said a word.”

“Thanks.” Max held out his hand. “I appreciate the cooperation.”

The cop shook it, but his eyes were flat. “You have Psy backing. Call me when you’re done.”

White lines bracketed Max’s mouth as the other man walked away. She wanted to comfort him, but what could she say? She was Psy, part of the very race whose history of arrogance meant Max was being seen as a traitor to his own people.

His gaze met hers at that moment and something in him seemed to ease. Walking up to the old-fashioned steel bars of the temporary holding cell, he said, “Keeping your mouth shut isn’t going to achieve anything, not while you’re in Nikita’s territory.”

The man sitting on a bunk on one side of the room didn’t so much as turn his head. Max tried again. With the same result. Shifting to glance at her, Max raised an eyebrow. She took a step closer to the bars. “Fanaticism,” she said, keeping her tone clear, Silent, pure, “is a breach of Silence.”

No response, but she knew he was listening.

“The fact that your colleague committed suicide when he was of sound mind and body speaks to that fanaticism.”

The man lifted his head. “It could as well have been a tactical decision to deprive the enemy of an individual to interrogate.”

“But you didn’t follow that path,” she pointed out. “You didn’t agree with his actions.”

“I have nothing to hide.” Cool words. “It’s no crime to be in an apartment in San Francisco. Even one with a view of the DarkRiver building.”

Sophia wondered if the male had truly thought through the consequences of his actions. Legalese wouldn’t save him, not when he’d proven himself part of the conspiracy against Nikita. Stepping back, she lowered her voice so that it would carry only to Max.

“Nikita doesn’t know yet.” That much was apparent because if she had, this man’s mind would’ve been torn apart like so much paper before they’d ever had a chance to talk to him.

Max set his jaw. “I don’t care who the fuck she is—she does that, I’m done with this case. They can blow her up for all I care.”

Nikita would bide her time, Sophia thought. Because right now, she needed Max. “Do you want to attempt further questioning while I—”

The scream was sharp, high pitched. Even as the medical alarms began blaring, the Psy male fell forward and to the floor, his body flopping about in the throes of a seizure that had his head thumping over and over against the plascrete floor.

Max had run to grab the guard with the key the instant after the first scream, but Sophia knelt by the bars, her heart twisting in pity. The would-be assassin’s face was contorted, blood leaking out of his ears, and there, in those final moments, Sophia saw fear fill his soul. Reaching through the bars, she gripped the hand that flailed toward her. “Hold on, help is coming.”

His hand spasmed on hers, pulling down her glove.

And he touched one finger to the skin bared at her wrist.

A scream of sound, images and thought, yesterdays tangled up in dying agonies.

Someone—Max—wrenched back her hand. “Sophia!”

She blinked, desperately trying to control the ugly roiling in her stomach. “Help him.” It came out husky, rough.

Max shook his head, his eyes solemn. “It’s too late.”

Following his gaze, she saw another Enforcement officer inside with the prisoner, his head bowed in defeat. The Psy male’s eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.

Nikita was adamant she hadn’t killed the man. “He was eliminated to prevent me from discovering what he knew,” she said when they confronted her. “If I had taken his mind, ripped away his secrets, I’d have no more use for you and Ms. Russo, Detective—and I’d make sure you knew it.”

Sophia watched Max hold that chilling gaze. “Now that, I believe.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if I’d been notified at the start.”

It was true. Because she’d have done the job herself.

But she hadn’t.

And right then, Sophia was too numb to consider anything further. She felt battered and bruised by the time they arrived back home. She didn’t make the slightest protest when Max ushered her into his apartment rather than her own. “Go take a hot shower,” he ordered, nudging her toward the bedroom and the bathroom that flowed off it. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

She felt her lower lip tremble and it was such a strange sensation that she stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Soft words, a gentle tone as he walked her into the bedroom and turned her in the direction of the bathroom door with his hands on her shoulders, careful to keep his fingers away from her skin.

He was taking care of her, she thought, her shocked state leaving her without defenses of any kind. “You’re the first person who’s ever taken care of me.” Even before her parents had rejected her, she’d been nothing but a practical responsibility.

Max went very, very still behind her. Then, releasing a long breath, he leaned in close enough that their breaths mingled. “Yeah?” A slow smile. “I guess that makes me a lucky man.” Moving to face her, he tugged at her arms until she lowered them from around her waist. Then he pulled off her jacket. “Baby, if I strip you, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep on being noble.”

Something snapped awake inside of her, electrified at the idea of Max seeing her naked. “I’ll be all right.”

Shifting back, Max took out something from the closet. “You can put this on after.”

It was, she saw, one of his shirts. She could’ve as easily asked him to go into her apartment and retrieve some of her own clothing, but she took the shirt . . . took the scent of Max into her hands. “Thank you.”

“There’s a spare towel on the rail. Leave the door open,” he said. “I’ll be in the living room—I want to be sure I hear you if you call out.”

She couldn’t find the words she wanted to say, so she forced her feet forward and into the bathroom. Leaving the door ajar, she listened to the sounds of Max moving about in the bedroom as he changed. By the time she peeled off her clothing and stepped into the shower, she no longer felt so close to breaking. Still, there was a new fragility inside of her, a new fracture in her innermost psychic shields.

I can’t break, she thought to herself, obdurate in her anger, her need, not yet. I haven’t lived yet.

Turning off the shower only after her skin was pink from the heat, she got out and used the spare towel to dry herself, then picked up Max’s shirt and brought it up to her nose. It had been laundered, but she could sense echoes of Max’s innate scent beneath the freshness of the detergent.

It slipped easily over her body, hanging to midthigh. The color was white, but the fabric was thick enough that she didn’t have to worry about her lack of underwear being embarrassingly obvious. Not that Max wouldn’t already be aware that she was naked beneath his shirt. Feeling her cheeks color, she put her dirty clothes—and gloves—in a neat pile to the side, then stepped out into the bedroom.

It was empty.

Glad for the reprieve, she found herself walking to the dresser. A plain black comb lay on the surface, along with a wallet and a keycard. The austere nature of it suited him, she thought, because for all his masculine beauty, Max was a cop through and through. Taking the comb, she lifted it up to her hair. It felt wonderfully intimate to run it through the damp strands, and she imagined what it would be like to have him stroke her scalp with those strong fingers of his instead.

“Sophie.”

Startled, she dropped the comb on the dresser, turning to find him leaning against the doorjamb. He’d changed into faded blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt that caressed his lithe frame with soft ease. “You look so young,” she said. With his hair sliding over his forehead and his expression outwardly relaxed, he could’ve been a college kid . . . but there was too much knowledge in those uptilted eyes.

“Look who’s talking.” With that, he pushed away from the doorjamb and closed the distance between them with that inherently masculine grace. “You look good in my shirt.”

She tugged at the cuffs she’d rolled up to her wrists, nervous in a way she couldn’t explain. “Max, I—” The words stuck in her throat, hard, jagged.

Eyes of near black met hers as he bent his knees to bring himself down to her height. “What do you need?”

The dam burst. “Will you hold me, Max?”

Max stepped closer. “Always. But are you sure? Your shie—”

“Please.”

His arms came around her, gently, so gently, as if he was afraid she’d shatter. But when she locked her own around his waist in an iron-tight embrace, his hold turned unbreakable. The electricity of their contact arced through her, but beneath it all was a tranquil, pure silence.

A sigh rippled out of her, as she found sweet relief from the unremitting pressure of the millions of minds in the vicinity, the billions of thoughts pressing down on her. When Max shifted his embrace to cup the back of her head, she shuddered.

He froze. “Sophie?”

“All I feel is you,” she whispered against his body, the warmth of him making her want to rub her face against him, rub her skin against him until he was a part of her. “Just you.”

“More?” A husky question.

“More.”

Bending his head, he touched his lips to her temple, one of his arms moving up to curve around her shoulders, his fingers tangling in her hair. She expected him to speak, but what he did instead was drop a line of kisses along her cheekbone and down over her jaw. Shivering from the sensation, from the near-painful pleasure of the contact, she stood on tiptoe, trying to get closer. A raw male chuckle.

And then Max kissed her.

This was no brush, no teasing taste. He took her mouth with the contained intensity she could feel thrumming beneath her fingers, his muscles taut, his entire body held barely in check. And she realized he was savagely angry, a tiger no longer on the leash.

His tongue swept against hers, buckling her knees. She gripped his shoulders, tried to hang on, drowning in the dark, masculine taste of him. Her heart was a rapid beat within her rib cage, her mind a place of splintering chaos. The only anchor, the only reality, was Max. His shoulder muscles shifting beneath her grasp, he moved one arm down to clamp over her lower back, his hand scrunching up the material of the shirt.

Air brushed the backs of her thighs, and she remembered she was standing in front of a mirror. But the thought was gone in the next instant as he tugged at her hair to angle her head for a deeper, hotly sexual kiss. Wet and open and demanding, it was the most intimate contact of her life. Her chest grew tight, so tight.

“Breathe.” A harsh order as Max broke the kiss.

Sucking in a gasping breath, she pressed her mouth back to his. Kissing was . . . wild and exhilarating and so shockingly intimate, she wasn’t sure she could handle what came afterward. But she would. “No.” The protest was rasped out as he broke the kiss a second time and gripped her arms, holding her hands from him.

A red flush rode his high cheekbones, and his voice, when he spoke, trembled with the force of emotion, “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I can’t be alone, Max.” She tried to close the gap between them, but he was too strong. “I want you.”

“You had one hell of a psychic shock today,” he said, refusing to budge. “I’m not about to let you cause further damage by overloading your—”

“Stop it,” she snapped out in spite of the fact that her skin was all but crawling with need, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow. “I’m not a child you have to protect. I know what I want.”

Max hissed out a breath. “Your shields—”

“I don’t know what’s happening with my shields,” she said, blunt in her need, “but I know that right now, I’m an enigma to those in the PsyNet. This is my chance. If that shield fails tomorrow, if my mind is torn open, so be it—but don’t you dare deny us this because you think you’re protecting me. Don’t you dare.”

Max’s fingers flexed on her wrists, but he didn’t pull her forward. “What about me?” he asked, anger a vibrating thread in his voice.

She was taken aback by the question, by the glittering emotion in his eyes. “Max—”

“What the fuck do you think it’ll do to me to love you, then watch as your mind breaks?” Veins stood out along his arms, as if he was having to hold himself in vicious check to keep from shaking her.