BONDS OF JUSTICE

Exiting the car to her sharply indrawn breath, he headed into the restaurant. The buzz of human and changeling energy surrounded him from every side—voices rose and fell in animated conversation, the odd burst of laughter punctuating the hum. A woman brushed by him as she left, throwing him an apologetic glance over her shoulder. Another patron almost ran into him as he got off a stool around the island that surrounded the chefs in their open-air kitchen.

Ignoring what for him were distractions, but would for Sophia be a small slice of hell, Max placed his order using the built-in pad on the counter.

The waitress put the order in front of him less than five minutes later. “You look like a cop.”

He raised an eyebrow as he scanned his debit card over the reader.

Laughing, she leaned forward, her cleavage displayed to cheerful advantage. “We get a lot in here—there’s an Enforcement station two blocks over.”

“You’ve developed excellent radar.”

“You’re not from around here—I can hear the accent.” Taking something from her pocket, she slid it across the counter with a smile. “For you.”

Picking it up when she turned to deliver another order, he saw that it was a small personal card made out of Japanese washi, bearing the name Keiko Nakamura and a cell phone code.

“Lucky man,” a morose male said from his left. “I’ve been trying to get her to go out for a coffee for months.” Envy was a thorny vine around every word.

“I’m off the market.” It had been true since the instant he first laid eyes on Sophia Russo, whether he’d known it at the time or not.

A gleam of interest. “Can I have the card then?”

“Sorry.” Max dropped it into the takeout bag. “Keep trying.”

Keiko’s rejected suitor scowled into his udon soup as Max walked away, his mind already on a woman with eyes full of secrets dark and painful. My Sophia, he thought, and it was a vow.


Sophia lifted the takeout containers from the bag as Max went to grab the plates from his kitchen area. When she saw the small white card, she assumed it held the number of the restaurant. Then her eye fell on the text. “Who’s Keiko Nakamura?”

“What?” Max walked out with the plates. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s going in the recycling.” Putting down the plates on the table, he plucked the card out of her hand and placed it in the bin marked for the recycling chute.

But Sophia couldn’t let the point go. “You met her at the restaurant?”

“Yes.” Placing two glasses of water on the table, he pulled out a chair with a spare efficiency that struck her as quintessentially male. “Waitress.”

“When a female gives her contact details to an otherwise unfamiliar man,” she said, trying not to be distracted by the heated strength of him so close . . . so touchable, “it is for private reasons.” As with that woman in the elevator at Vale’s apartment. “Women seem to always be giving you their cards.”

Max opened one of the containers and served some sushi onto her plate using the disposable chopsticks. “That bother you, Sophie?” A low, deep tone, a masculine smile that made her skin go tight with warning.

Remembering too late that Max Shannon was a cop used to digging deep, reading truths and lies, she opened the other container. “What is this?”

“Tempura.” Max put what appeared to be a battered prawn onto her plate, his voice holding a distinct male amusement. “Try it. And you haven’t answered my question.”

Having removed her gloves and washed her hands earlier, she used her fingers to pick up a piece of sushi. “I suppose I should become accustomed to women . . .” She paused, unable to think of the correct term.

“Hitting on me.”

“Yes, I should get accustomed to women hitting on you,” she said. “After all, you are a beautiful man.”

Color flagged Max’s cheeks. “I’ll let you—and only you—get away with that. But never in public. Got it?”

She was so fascinated by the disarming glimpse of embarrassment that she blurted out a need so deep, it would ravage her if he refused. “I would rather you not respond to any such invitations while we are . . .”

His gaze met hers, his attention so total that she felt as if she was in the sights of some great bird of prey. “While we are?” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

She’d come this far, couldn’t go back now. He knew about the otherness, about the cold justice she’d delivered to those who’d hurt society’s most vulnerable, and he hadn’t turned away—she was still too terrified to ask him why, but it gave her the courage to say, “While we are learning each other.”

“Learning each other,” Max repeated, as if measuring the words. “And will you let me in, Sophie?”

“Yes.” Something stirred deep within her, something that was at once dark . . . and lonely. Unutterably, absolutely lonely. “Be with me, Max.” Saying that was the hardest thing she’d ever done—it felt akin to tearing out her heart and placing it at his feet . . . and hoping, just hoping, that he wouldn’t crush it.

Max didn’t say anything for several long moments. When he did speak, his voice seemed to have dropped an octave. “Do you know what you’re asking, what I’ll demand of you?”