The next piece of movement showed Sascha exiting Marsha’s apartment with the other woman by her side.
“Wait.” Max paused the screen, rewound it to the image of Edward Chan disappearing into his apartment. “Look at the time stamp.”
“Ten fifteen a.m.”
“I’m resetting it to playback continuously from this point.” But when he pushed Play, they saw Sascha leaving Marsha’s apartment.
Sophia blinked, staring at the time stamp. “It’s over an hour and a half later.”
“From the looks of the file data,” Max said, bringing it up on the side of the comm screen, “someone input a ‘do not record’ order for that period.” He restarted playback.
The next movement came barely five minutes after Sascha’s departure, when the same intern who’d left the envelope returned—eventually entering the apartment to discover Chan’s body. “Why was Asquith given not only permission, but the code to override Chan’s security?” Max asked Sophia, stopping the playback.
“He must’ve gone into the Net to contact Edward, found him gone.” Sophia had seen J minds blink out like that, known that death had claimed one more of her own. “Psy who drop out of the Net without explanation are always tracked down to verify the reason for their disappearance.” For Sophia, that reason would only ever be death, her mind too deeply integrated into the Net to survive any separation. “How long it takes depends on the circumstances, but here it was obviously very close to the time of the murder.”
When Max didn’t say anything in response to her statement, she glanced over to find him pinching the bridge of his nose in an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration. “Max?”
A low, hard word as he dropped his hand. “I’m about to piss off the few friends I have in this city.”
Sophia went to reach out, touch him. But Max thrust both hands through his hair and got up from the sofa before she could transform thought into action. Her fingers curled into the sofa cushions—just as something walked across her feet. She jerked back in response, making Morpheus yowl. “Oh, my apologies, Morpheus.”
The cat gave her a baleful glare before hopping up to sit on the sofa beside her.
“He wants you to pet him,” Max said distractedly, pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll give Clay a call, set up a meet.”
“What about Marsha Langholm?”
“We’ll talk to her after Sascha.”
Morpheus put a clawed paw on Sophia’s thigh, insistent. Taking the hint, she ran her fingers through his fur. It was far softer than she’d imagined, the living warmth of him making the experience nothing akin to touching a faux-fur coat, as she’d once done in a department store.
When Morpheus spread out over her thigh, eyes closed in feline bliss, she knew she’d passed muster. However, her attention was no longer on the temperamental cat, but on his master. Max stood by the window, cell phone to his ear. He moved, she thought, with the same grace as the feline under her hand—with a muscled ease that told her he was in full and total control of his body, his strength.
What would it be like to stroke
him
?
He turned, met her eyes. She wondered what he saw, because his expression changed to a look she knew instinctively she’d only ever see in a sexual context. Closing the phone, he walked over and brushed back her hair, stroking his finger along the very tip of her ear. “Sascha’s at the city office.”
It was the lightest of touches, but she shivered. “That is not an erotic zone.”
“Oh?” Leaning down, he closed his teeth gently over the same spot.
And Sophia saw stars.
They were met at DarkRiver’s city HQ by the leopard alpha himself. Lucas Hunter was obviously not pleased to find his mate in the crosshairs of an investigation, but he said nothing except, “Max, Ms. Russo,” before showing them up to the meeting room.
Entering, Sophia tried not to stare at the woman seated on the other side of the round table. But that proved impossible. The image on the screen hadn’t done Sascha Duncan justice. Not only did she bear the startling night-sky eyes of a cardinal—white stars on a sweep of black velvet—she was beyond beautiful, her face holding a glow that didn’t seem real.
“This is Sophia,” Max said to Sascha, his fingers pressing lightly on Sophia’s lower back.
Her clothing did nothing to mute the impact of his touch, the tiny hairs on her arms rising up in vivid response. “Ms. Duncan,” she somehow managed to say.
“Please call me Sascha.” Glancing up, the cardinal Psy touched her fingers to Lucas’s as her mate walked around to stand by her side, his hand on her shoulder. Something unseen passed between them, because the leopard alpha angled his head in a move that was very feline, before saying, “Take a seat,” and folding his own body into a chair beside his mate.
“Sophie.” Max pulled out a chair, taking his own after she’d seated herself. “I’ll be upfront with you both,” he said to the DarkRiver couple, one arm braced on the table. “Sascha, you were in the Duncan building this morning in the apartment across from an Edward Chan.”
Lucas leaned back in his chair in a seemingly casual pose . . . except that his eyes weren’t quite human—Sophia could see an areola of gold around the green, as if the leopard was simply waiting for an excuse to get out.
“What’re you getting at Max?” A question that held a warning.
“Just doing my job,” Max said easily. So easily you could’ve almost overlooked the fact that he was holding Lucas’s gaze with unflinching confidence.
Dominance, she thought, it was all about dominance with males.
“Lucas,” Sascha murmured, and Sophia saw the other woman’s shoulder muscles shift in a way that meant she had, in all probability, placed her hand on her mate’s thigh. An intimate gesture between male and female, one she knew Max would allow her . . . and not another woman, no matter who she was. Not now. A strange new thing unfurled inside of her, tight and hot and determined.
“Yes, I was there,” Sascha said to Max, even as Sophia fought the urge to push herself, to stroke Max, feel his muscles bunch under her touch. “I went to speak to Marsha Langholm.”
“The thing is”—Max’s tone was gentler than Sophia had ever heard it—“Edward Chan was murdered in the room across from Langholm’s while you were in there with her.”
Sascha’s eyes went wide, her distress open. “Oh, God. That explains it.”
CHAPTER 18
Lucas ran a soothing hand along Sascha’s spine. “Shh, kitten. Don’t let it stress you out.”
“I’m okay—it was just the shock of it.” Taking several deep breaths, she looked straight at them. “How much do you know about my abilities?”
Max glanced at Sophia, and she took that as a cue to answer. “They say you can sense emotion, heal wounds of the heart. There are rumors you’re an E, a designation that doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, it exists,” Sascha said with a firmness at odds with the incredible warmth of her presence. “I’m an empath, not a particularly useful thing in the Net under Silence. But that doesn’t matter—only two things matter. One—I couldn’t murder anyone, not without it rebounding back on me. I’d feel the impact of the victim’s death, and I’m fairly certain it would kill me. Nikita can verify that for you.”
Sophia found herself believing Sascha. There was just something about the other woman that made her
want
to believe. If all Es motivated the same response, then it might go toward explaining why their designation had been buried—they were a threat, because they inspired loyalty without the fear that was the Council’s favorite weapon. “You said two reasons,” she prompted in a tone that held genuine respect. “What’s the second?”
“I think I felt him die.” It was a whisper. “It was just before I left Marsha’s room. I felt a wave of nausea, then everything went black—I thought I was going to faint. But it passed within seconds, so I put it down to getting up too quickly from the sofa.” She leaned into her mate’s embrace—Lucas’s face was set in lines of savage protectiveness, but he held her with open tenderness. “Poor Edward. He always worked so hard.”
“Sascha.” Max’s tone was oddly careful as he said, “Did you see or hear anything that might help? I’ve got a gap of ninety critical minutes in the security footage.”
“No.” Frown lines marred her brow. “The rooms are all soundproofed, and I was intent on my conversation with Marsha. We were together the whole time except when I got up to go to the bathroom.” Those extraordinary eyes met Max’s. “I’m the last person who’d hurt anyone.”
Max thrust a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said in the tone of a man who’d made a decision. “I think it’s about time you know what’s going on.” A searing glance out of those near-black eyes. “Sophie, it might be better for you to leave the room.”
She remained in her seat. Max tapped her foot with his in playful approval—making her heart slam against her ribs, her fingers curl—before turning his attention back to the other couple. “Someone’s attempting to derail Nikita’s organization by taking out her people because he or she can’t get to Nikita herself. It’s looking like the bombers four months ago only got to the elevator shaft because someone on the inside made sure they did.”
Sascha’s hand clenched into a fist on the table. “You don’t think they’ll facilitate another attempt on her life?”
“Your mother,” Max said, “is forearmed and very security conscious. That’s why the killer has become frustrated, started to target those around her.” He blew out a breath. “Sascha, if you’re still in contact with her, you’re a prime target.”
Lucas Hunter tangled his fingers with his mate’s, his lethal anger turning into an intense, protective focus. “Sascha isn’t Nikita’s heir.”
“She’s Nikita’s daughter.” Max shook his head, his jaw a stubborn line. “I don’t care what anyone says about the Psy ability to cut off people without a thought—if a Councilor’s daughter is taken out, it
will
have an impact.”
“You may not be Councilor Duncan’s financial heir,” Sophia said into the silence, “but you remain her genetic heir, the only one she has.” And genetics were very, very important in the Net. Those of her race had no love, no hate, to tie them together, but they had blood. “As far as I know, she hasn’t arranged for a second child or a surrogate.”
“No,” Sascha whispered. “I’ve never understood why.”
“My pack will protect my mate,” Lucas said to Max. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Max gave a wry smile. “Thanks for not ripping my face off before I could get a word out.”
“It’s such a pretty face,” the leopard alpha responded, a feline smile warming those feral green eyes, “the women in the office would probably string me up if I messed it up.”
Sophia felt the tension level in the room drop even before Max’s expression shifted to pure male amusement. “I thought Dorian was considered the fairest of them all.”
It was Sascha who replied. “I don’t know, Max”—a tight smile, as the empath fought her worry for her mother—“you’re giving him serious competition. I’m certain I heard Zara say something about wanting to lick you up like strawberry ice cream.”
Sophia decided this Zara person couldn’t be allowed anywhere near Max. Who tilted back his chair in that way he had and laughed. “Since I’ve already broken the rules, if either of you have any idea of who might want to go after Nikita, I’d be happy to hear it.”
“Let us discuss it and get back to you.” Squeezing his mate’s shoulder, Lucas rose to his feet.
“Fair enough.” Max stood as well. “Clay knows where I’m staying, and he’s got my cell code.” As the men shook hands, Sophia got up, taking one last look at the extraordinary daughter Councilor Nikita Duncan had borne. Sascha’s head was bent, her smile having faded away to reveal a haunting worry.
“Sophie.”
She turned to see Max holding the door. Walking out beside him, she considered whether she’d mourn her own parents when they died.
No
, she thought. They’d erased her from their lives so cleanly that she’d had to erase them from hers in order to survive. It had been hard, so hard to do that. She’d written letters at first. She’d begged.
Finally, a response had come . . . one that had made her parents’ position clear with brutal precision—she was no longer, it had stated, an “acceptable genetic heir.”
A wolf whistle pierced the air, slicing neatly through the pained numbness of her memories of the day she’d realized her parents were never returning for her. The whistle originated from the mouth of a small woman with coffee-colored skin. “I hear you’re single, Cop.” A blinding smile.
Max’s responding smile revealed the lean dimple in his left cheek that Sophia wanted to kiss each time she saw it. “Your intel is out of date.”
“I knew it—I’m going to die an old maid.” Her face drooped. “I shall now go drown myself in fantasies where three—no
four
—hot men await my every whim.”
Sophia didn’t say a word until they were back in the car. “I’m . . . glad that you no longer consider yourself single.” It took considerable willpower to say that, to admit how much his commitment meant to her. No one had ever before chosen her. No one.
Reaching out with a deliberate slowness, Max brushed his knuckles over her cheek. The sensation was a hot whip over her skin. “The things I plan to do to you, Sophie,” he whispered in a deep voice that made her toes curl. “Zara’s fantasies have nothing on mine.”
Lucas waited until after Max and Sophia Russo had left to turn to his mate. Fighting the urge to just cuddle the worry out of her, he leaned back against the wall by the door and folded his arms. “Now, kitten, how about telling me exactly what you were doing in the Duncan building?” His heart had almost stopped beating when she’d confessed her little field trip.
“Lucas,” Sascha said in a voice that would’ve normally made him calm down.
“That isn’t going to work.” He dropped his hands, moved to brace them on the tabletop. “I thought we agreed you’d stay out of the limelight while you’re so vulnerable. And God, you went—” He grit his teeth, unable to get the words out.