We stayed like that, tangled together, until the sun rose fully, until my phone chirped with the first messages of the day, until reality began its inevitable intrusion.
"We should get up," Maxime said finally, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm. "The board will be waiting for updates on Shaw."
"Let them wait." But I was already calculating the day ahead. "We'll shower. I'll have Callum bring a fresh suit to your place. Car at seven."
"Yes." The single word contained volumes of agreement, partnership, and understanding.
I eased out of bed, testing my leg before standing fully. Maxime moved slower, wincing at each step. We moved like old warriors, bodies mapped with scars both visible and hidden, aware of every weakness, every limitation.
The shower beckoned, steam rising as hot water filled the glass enclosure. Maxime stepped in first, water sluicing over his shoulders, darkening his hair. I watched him for a moment, struck by the simple fact that I'd never seen this before, never seen him with water running down his back, head tilted toward the spray.
My phone buzzed on the counter, then again. I ignored it, stepping into the shower behind him. My hands found his waist, pulling him back against my chest. His head tipped back against my shoulder, eyes closed against the water.
The phone buzzed again. Three rapid pulses. Our emergency signal.
"Fuck." I stepped out, grabbing a towel, water dripping onto the tile as I reached for the device.
A text from Xavier: Turn on the news. Now.
I wrapped the towel around my waist, moving quickly to the bedroom where I found the television remote. The screen flickered to life, volume low.
"...devastating attack in Oklahoma City. Authorities are reporting hundreds dead, with hundreds more wounded. The affected area includes residential neighborhoods in the eastern district, including the Sunset Terrace mobile home community..."
The Sunset Terrace, my old neighborhood, the trailer park where I'd grown up, where I'd killed Shane.
Maxime appeared in the doorway, water still beading on his skin, eyes fixed on the screen.
"...unprecedented attack using what experts are calling a sonic weapon. Victims exhibited symptoms of cerebral hemorrhage, seizures, and massive internal bleeding. Authorities have established a ten-mile exclusion zone around the affected area..."
The footage showed aerial views of a neighborhood in ruins. Not from explosions or fire, but from hundreds of bodies lying where they'd fallen in streets and yards and playgrounds and doorways. People who'd dropped mid-step, mid-word, mid-breath.
"A sonic weapon," Maxime whispered, his face going pale.
My hands went cold. My heart rate slowed to a dangerous calm. I retrieved my clothes from the night before and frantically searched them, pulling out my Ace of Spades. Xavier's security protocols required both my biometrics and this card. Shaw couldn't have cracked them this fast.
Could he?
The reporter continued, voice tight with professional control. "Officials are calling this the deadliest terrorist attack on American soil since 9/11. No group has claimed responsibility, but sources close to the investigation suggest this may be connected to recently stolen military technology..."
I muted the television, turning to find Maxime already moving, already planning, already calculating ten steps ahead.
"I'll contact Reid," he said, reaching for his phone. "Get the security team to the tower. Alert Legal. We need a statement ready before the Pentagon calls."
I watched him transform from the man in my arms to the perfect COO, the shift so practiced it happened between heartbeats. Part of me wanted to pull him back, to hold on to what we'd found in the quiet morning light.
But hundreds were dead. My hometown lay in ruins. And someone had just declared war using a sonic weapon in the exact place where Jackson Wheeler had been born and buried.
That wasn't a coincidence but a message.
There would be time for love later. If we survived what was coming.
"No further questions atthis time."
I stepped back from the podium, ignoring the barrage of shouted questions from the press corps. Camera flashes exploded across my vision in staccato bursts. Microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air in the tent crackled with predatory hunger disguised as journalistic duty.
"Mr. Caisse-Etremont! Is Lucky Losers responsible for these deaths?"
"Will you resign over this security breach?"
