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The words, the magic of them struck his heart. Then for the last time he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, and breathing her, let go.
They held each other up. Eve figured she’d get her breath back in a day or two. It might take up to a week before she got any strength back in her legs.
Otherwise, all good.
She’d figured they’d have a quick, stress-reducing bang, and instead, they’d come together in a way that left her both unwound and energized. If she didn’t count her still-weak knees.
“I think we need to get out of here,” she managed.
“Not yet.”
“I’m pretty sure I can crawl.”
“We’ll do better. Decrease jet temp to eighty-six degrees.”
“Wait—” The water poured cool considering what it had been. She squealed, cursed, struggled, but he held her snug to the wall.
Laughing, he snuggled her closer. “It’ll wake you up, and it’s the same temperature as the pool. Hardly an ice bath.”
It felt like one to her. “Jets off! Off, off, fucking off!”
When they shut down, she shoved her dripping hair out of her eyes, scorched him with a look.
He only gave her the most pleasant of smiles in return.
Hadn’t she said men had juvenile senses of humor? “You think that was funny?”
“I do, yes. And refreshing. And I bet you can walk under your own power now.”
Because she certainly could—and not to prove him right—she strode straight into the drying tube, letting out a relieved breath when the warm air swirled.
Through the glass she watched him select a towel. He sent her a grin as he dried off, then slung the towel over his hips and walked back to the bedroom.
He’d pulled on jeans and a T-shirt by the time she came out, so she did the same.
She gave one brief thought to the fact most people were in bed, or at least thinking about getting there at this time of night.
Cops weren’t most people.
“I’m going to get started,” she told him.
“As am I.” He walked out with her. “I’ll give you whatever help I can once I’ve sorted some things out.”
They separated to their adjoining offices.
She set up her board first, lining up the faces of the dead, those who lived, and those who connected to them.
In her little kitchen, she programmed coffee, took it to her desk. There she sat a few minutes, feet up, eyes on the board. Let her thoughts wander.
Controlled. Callous—didn’t care who died. Even if it had been target specific on one or more vics, the collateral damage didn’t bother him, them.
Potentially that was the point. Kill as many as possible.
Political agenda unlikely. If there’d been one, credit would’ve been taken. That made it personal, but not intimate.
Not sexual. No monetary gain—none that showed, she amended.
Playing God—that’s what Mira had said, and that fit best.
