"He definitely finished," Jake said, almost admiringly. "Multiple times, knowing him. Ask any woman who's been with Cruxius. Guy's a damn rabbit. Don't trouble yourself with it, darling—emotional love is worth more than physical touch."
He kissed her forehead with the tenderness of a man performing tenderness for an audience.
They passed the reception desk.
Down the corridor, a woman in a white coat moved toward them at a brisk pace—pencil skirt, thin-rimmed glasses, high heels, hands at ease in her pockets, the particular posture of someone who had been competent for long enough that they'd stopped performing it.
Jake stopped. Something sharpened in his expression.
"Doctor Seleyena. How was your chat with my father?" His smile had a specific quality—the smug comfort of a man who expected the conversation to have already been handled.
She had, in fact, reported him that morning for removing a specific compound from the hospital's private lab. Unauthorized. Documented.
