BONDS OF JUSTICE

“Is that the physical type that attracts you?” Aware she should back off, but unable to stop pushing for an answer, Sophia stepped out of the elevator on Vale’s floor. “Tall, slender, with a fashionable-dress preference?”


Max gestured to the left of the quiet, carpeted corridor. “That’s his place.” Letting her pass him so she could input the code that would disengage the locks, he pushed open the door. “And,” he said in a voice that made the tiny hairs on the back of her nape rise in warning as she walked in ahead of him, “the answer to your question is no. That woman didn’t do it for me.” He pushed the door shut behind them. “Now a small woman with dangerous curves . . . I could bite into her.”

She froze, certain she was misreading the comment, but suddenly very conscious of the way her lower body filled out her jeans. “Detective Shannon,” she said, turning to face him, “you’re being highly inappropriate.”

His lips kicked up at the corners. “You started it.”

She wanted to trace the shape of those lips, wanted it so badly her fingers cramped as she fisted them. Her Silence had been fragmenting for years—an inevitable side effect of her work as a J, and one for which the J Corps had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. So long as the medics didn’t find any evidence, the J Corps Management Board wouldn’t turn in a fractured J. It was partly an economic decision in order to retain the number of active Js . . . and partly because everyone in the Corps had looked into the chasm of madness at some point in their lives.

Though Sophia hadn’t allowed herself to think about the truth even within her own mind, conscious of how deep M-Psy could dig, her conditioning had broken close to completely earlier this year, her mind twined with strange, dark tendrils that rebuffed Silence; and the reconditioning she’d undergone only the previous day had already been sloughed off like so much dead skin. But in spite of it all, she’d been able to hold up the facade, the pretense of being the perfect Psy. Until now.

“Breathe, Sophia.” A husky order, and to her surprise, he took a step back, began to walk around Vale’s living area. “This room is set up for entertaining—or maybe meetings, since I’m guessing Psy don’t do parties?”

She forced her brain to function, to provide him with the answers. “Actually,” she said, the words coming sluggishly as she fought the confusion created by his mere presence, “cocktail parties are held when there are human or changeling clients. It’s all about putting the other side at ease.”

Some Psy could even manage a glacial kind of charm—Councilor Kaleb Krychek had an unusual number of admirers in the non-Psy population. She couldn’t understand why. Yes, aesthetically speaking, he was the epitome of a cold male beauty. But he was also, she was certain, quite capable of snapping his admirers’ necks without the least pause should the occasion call for it.

“Do you know if Vale received business clients in here outside of any social events?” Max’s expression was all cop when she dared meet his gaze again. Yet, embers continued to burn in the depths of those near-black eyes. He made no effort to hide them, no effort to pretend that things were as they should’ve been between an Enforcement detective and a Silent J.

“It’s possible.” Could Max share that warmth, she wondered, thaw the frost in her soul, frost that had begun to form when she’d been a traumatized eight-year-old strapped helpless to a hospital bed? Could he fix her? “Some humans don’t like to be seen consorting with Psy.” It was a question—vital, necessary, powerful—couched as a statement.

Max peeled off his Windbreaker, bunching the black material in his hand. “I don’t like the Psy,” he said with blunt honesty. “I don’t like how they mess with human minds and pervert justice so the Council can get what it wants.”

She’d known that, of course she’d known that. But she hadn’t wanted to know.

“But Sophie”—what had he called her?—“I’m no bigot. And you’re a J. Cops and Js have always gone together.” He held her gaze until she looked away, scrambling to find her footing by reciting the minutiae of the case in her mind. Because what he’d just offered, it was something she wanted so badly that if she dared reach for it and he drew back his hand, it would push her the final step into an irrevocable insanity.

“Sophie.” A quiet demand.

She shook her head. “There’s not much left inside me, Max.” Sometimes, all she heard were echoes. “I don’t know how to play the games that woman was playing with you.”

Max sucked in a breath, blindsided by Sophia’s stark honesty. It stripped away the sophisticated rituals of the dance between male and female, allowing no room for illusions and half-truths. He could’ve pulled back, but he’d made his choice—to follow this strange, powerful attraction through to the end. “No games,” he said, holding her gaze. “Not between us.”