Everyone laughed, but the sound was muted, their instincts on alert for any sign of intruders. As soon as there was enough light, they split up into their assigned groups and headed out to comb for needles in haystacks.

“We found ten devices located on the northern edge of our territory,” Andrew told Max over a beer that night in a dark little Chinatown tavern that served the best microbrew in the city. “We did a fairly comprehensive sweep along the other sides, but got nothing.”

“Still, it’s an enormous area,” Max said, “and these devices sound small.”

“Yeah.” Watching the condensation run down the glass of his bottle, he met the cop’s eyes. “But whatever they were up to, we’ve put a dent in their plans by increasing security across all the isolated sections.”

“You have a theory?”

“A couple.” He left it at that.

“I can confirm it’s not Nikita,” Max said, without waiting for Andrew to ask.

“How can you be certain?”

“No reason to hire me if she’s got someone capable of organizing that kind of an operation.” A shrug. “And, given the access she’s handed me to Psy data, I don’t think it’s some kind of a massive double cross.”

The only other Councilor in the area was Anthony Kyriakus, whose daughter, Faith, was mated to another DarkRiver sentinel. The cats had already sent through word that Anthony wasn’t involved. It wasn’t like SnowDancer to accept anything on face value, but this time, Hawke had. Which said a hell of a lot about the SnowDancer-DarkRiver alliance.

“Did Nikita have anything else to say about this?” Andrew asked.

Max took a sip of his beer, making an appreciative noise at the back of his throat. “She paid attention when I told her, but something else is keeping her distracted.”

“Want to share?” He drank some of his own beer.

Max leaned back against the maroon leather of the booth. “I didn’t want to work for a Councilor, but now I do—and as long as she doesn’t break the deal we’ve got going, I’m loyal.”

Andrew didn’t ask what the deal was. He could guess. “Fair enough.” It would make his task harder, but at the same time, it solidified his wolf’s respect for the cop. “But does it have anything to do with dead Psy in the city?”

Max tilted his beer bottle at Drew. “I wondered how long it would take for you lot to twig to that.” Putting down the bottle, he braced his forearms on the table. “Four suspicious deaths, all psychic hits.”

“Nothing in the media. You covering up for Nikita?”

Max’s skin pulled tight over his jaw. “I’ll allow that only because I would’ve come to the same conclusion six months ago.” His anger was a cool flame in his eyes. “It’s no cover-up. Enforcement’s fully aware of the situation, just keeping its mouth shut for once.”

Andrew heard the ring of truth in that. “Sorry, man. I had to ask.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again.” The cop blew out a breath. “Look, we’ve warned the targeted group—low-Gradient Psy—but we’ve done so quietly because there’s a good chance the kills are politically motivated, meant to cause unrest in the civilian population.”

“We’ve heard rumors of trouble in the Council ranks.”

Max nodded. “Probability the murders are part of that is very high.”

“Interesting.” Andrew shared the e-mail Pure Psy had sent to SnowDancer wolves. “Connected, you think?”

“I’d bet on it.” Max handed back the ugly e-mail. “I have to keep an open mind about the murders in case some other crazies were ‘inspired’ by Pure Psy, but my gut says Henry Scott and his fanatics are knee-deep in it.”

“Gloria,” Andrew said, watching the cop’s face, “she was erased.”

Lines flared out at the corners of the cop’s slightly uptilted eyes. “You have very good intel. That was done without my knowledge; the other sites are being processed as they should be.”

Andrew knew without asking that whoever had given the order for erasure wouldn’t be doing so again. It made him very curious as to exactly what kind of a deal Nikita had struck with the cop that allowed him that much power, but he knew that wasn’t a question Max would answer. So he asked another. “What’s it like, working for a Councilor?”

“Half the time I’m rubbing my hands in insane glee at the information I have access to.”

“And the other half?”

“I’m trying not to fucking murder someone myself—usually Nikita.” Max’s phone beeped on the heels of that comment. The cop glanced at the readout with a smile. “My wife wants me home for dinner.”

Andrew didn’t have to be psychic to sense the other man’s unadulterated pleasure. Feeling bad tempered for no other reason than that Indigo was mad at him, he said, “Have you ever made her angry?” If the cop said that he and his wife lived in a state of constant connubial bliss, Andrew decided he’d have full cause to throw a punch.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Sure, I’m human.” He slid the phone into the pocket of his suit pants and rose to his feet with a distinctly amused glint in his eye. “Making up is the fun part, in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”

Indigo sank into what she thought was a well-deserved bath late that night, having only now finished updating the other lieutenants as to the situation with the Psy incursions. Tomás had had further disturbing news to share—more dead Psy, this time on the edges of the state and left in public areas where they couldn’t be missed.

Judd, having taken charge of keeping track of that situation earlier, had volunteered to continue to handle it, and Indigo was so grateful, she could’ve kissed him. She was tired from the search, her muscles tense, but mostly she had an itch and no one to scratch it. Hissing out a breath, she sank deeper into the hot water, damn glad she’d chosen one of the rooms with a bath rather than a shower. She’d just picked up the loofah to run it down her leg when she heard someone enter her apartment.

Very, very few people would’ve felt they had the right to waltz on in.

Then she caught the scent of wild, wicked male and the liquid heat between her legs had nothing to do with the bath. “How did the meeting go?” she asked as Drew appeared in the doorway, his eyes skating over the bubbles that covered her from neck to toe.

“Dead Psy might be connected to Pure Psy. Looks like they’re collateral damage in a political showdown.”

The Psy were the enemy, but today, she felt pity for those who had no choice but to remain in the PsyNet. “God, imagine having sociopathic bastards like that as your leadership.”

“I’d rather not talk about the Council right now.”

“Oh? What would you like to discuss?” She raised an arm out of the tub and began to run the loofah down it, wanting to torture him in revenge for her keening sexual frustration.

Closing the distance between them, he perched on the edge of the tub, dipping his fingers into the foam, his eyes on her face. “Indigo.”

She looked up, raised an eyebrow.

And held his gaze as he shifted his hold so that one of his hands was on either side of the tub, enclosing her in a prison of steely male muscle. “I,” he said quietly, “am a dominant male. You need to learn to deal with that.”

His tone made her claws prick the insides of her skin, but she kept her own tone neutral. “I’m more than used to dealing with dominant males.”

“Bull. Shit.” Quiet. Intense. “You’ve had lovers, but never one whom you’ve let in enough that you actually had to deal with the implications.”

“What makes you think you’re about to break the pattern?”

Water sloshed over the edge and onto the tile floor as Drew got into the tub, jeans and all, and knelt to straddle her. In spite of her shock, she was ready for him when he cupped her face in his hands and swept his tongue into her mouth. She tasted an earthy masculine sensuality, a hint of beer—smooth and dark—and something that licked at her senses like fire. Drew. His tongue stroked and licked, while his hands kept her in place for his delectation, his teeth biting on her lower lip, teasing her upper one.

Heat uncurled in her abdomen, though she recognized exactly what he was doing. It was another display of possession. Her wolf bared its fangs at the idea, giving her enough strength of will to break the kiss, push at his shoulders with her claws. He refused to move, but he put his hands on the edge of the bath behind her.

She was sucking in a breath to speak when he simply bent his head and kissed her again. All hot and warm and sexy and demanding. Sex, she thought, wasn’t going to solve anything . . . but then he slid one hand down to squeeze her breast and a surge of blinding passion eclipsed every other thought. Biting down on his lower lip, she tugged up his head with a hand fisted in his hair. “Take off the T-shirt.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue, reaching down and pulling the half-sodden material over his head. It landed soundlessly on the fluffy bath mat as he threw it over the side. She was stroking her hands up his chest, delighting in the heated silk of his body, when he kissed her again—and this time, there was no buildup. No, he just continued on from where he’d left off, fondling her breast with a proprietary touch that made her want to moan and to bite him at the same time.

His free hand, he stroked down to press against her abdomen.

As she went to reach for his erection, he angled that hand down, spearing his fingers through her curls to—

She screamed into his mouth as he thrust two fingers inside her. “Damn it, Drew,” she gasped, “that is not foreplay.”

He bit at her neck, smoothing his other hand down her ribs, then back up to squeeze and caress her breasts, rubbing his thumb over one tightly furled nipple. “Yes, it is.” Another kiss, another tangling of lips and teeth and tongue. “I can feel you all silky and luscious”—two fast thrusts that threw her shockingly close to orgasm—“and ready, so hot and ready.”