BONDS OF JUSTICE

Max was just taking a sip of his coffee the next morning before attempting to get in touch with Kaleb Krychek when security dropped off his mail. Checking it, he saw that his super in Manhattan had forwarded what felt like a couple of letters in a bigger envelope.

“What’s that?” Sophia asked as he took a seat beside her on the sofa. She’d had a good night’s sleep, shaken off the final side effects of the drugs.

Max reached out to run his hand through her hair, unable to stop touching her. “Probably bills,” he said with a shrug that tried to be careless.

He knew he’d failed when Sophia touched his shoulder. “Max?”

“I’ve been trying to track down my father,” he told her, admitting his final secret. “I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll know when I find him.”

“Do you think the information is in that envelope?”

“No way to know—but each time I open a ‘mystery’ envelope,” he said, looking down at the plain brown paper, “I hope.”

Sophia shifted to snuggle by his side. It was automatic to put his arm around her, pull her tight against him. She fit perfectly. “There’s something else.” A soft statement from the Psy who owned his heart. “Your expression . . .”

He stole a kiss, needing her. “You’re starting to read me like a book. By the time we’re sitting in rockers watching our grandchildren play, you’ll know my secrets before I do.”

She smiled, and it hit him right in the heart, how fucking much she meant to him. He wasn’t letting her go, wasn’t letting the Corps drag her back down into the nightmare world of an active J—even if he had to fight Silence itself. “I know your secrets, too, Sophie,” he said. “Who were you telepathing earlier?”

“Another J.” A pause. “My shields, Max, I need to explain them, to assess if there’s a chance they’ll fail again.”

His soul repudiated the idea, but he knew she was right. “What did your friend say?”

“That Sascha Duncan is supposed to be an excellent shield technician—he recommended I talk to her, see if she can figure out what’s behind the regeneration of my shields.” Lifting herself up a little, she pressed her lips to the tiny scar on his cheek, the one she seemed to love.

It made his heart smile each time she did that. Even today, now, he felt loved, adored.

“But we can discuss all that later,” Sophia murmured. “Open the envelope.”

Removing his arm from around her, he drew in the vanilla and lavender scent of her and slit open the paper.

He’d opened so many envelopes since he began this search, become so used to disappointment that it took him almost a minute to realize what he held in his hand. Letting the other pieces of mail fall to the carpet, he ran his hand over the crisp white paper of the single piece he still held. “See that?” he said, rubbing his thumb over the emblem on the top left-hand corner.

Sophia bent her head. “It’s from the Department of Justice.”

“Bart,” he clarified. “I asked him for a favor.” It could’ve gotten the other man fired, but the prosecutor had asked only the questions he needed to get the answer.

Sophia took a long breath, let it out. “You asked him to run your DNA against the central Justice criminal database.”

He wasn’t the least surprised that she’d guessed. “It was a logical step, given our socioeconomic circumstances, the history of the other men in the area at the time.” He took a deep breath. “And it’s a step I avoided for a hell of a long time.”

“That’s understandable,” Sophia said, shifting to a kneeling position beside him on the sofa, her fingers stroking through his hair. “You’re a cop. You’ve dedicated your life to upholding the law—discovering that your father was a criminal who broke those same laws will be a blow.” Her words were calm, practical. “But Max”—her tone changed, gentled, her eyes shining—“it will alter nothing about the man you are, the man you’ve made yourself.”

He slid one arm around her waist, his throat thick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her forehead touching his in tender affection, her hands cupping his face. “You’re the one who taught me that life isn’t predestined. We are who we make ourselves.”

Her faith in him tore him wide open, reformed him a better man. “Open it for me.”