"Do you need me to call Janos and ask?" Emma asked calmly. "He's wanted to sleep with me for a long time. If I call him, he won't refuse."
Her tone was casual, almost conversational. By now, she had completely adapted to her new position. More precisely, from the moment her subconscious had been altered, she regarded Richard as her absolute superior. The shift in loyalty felt natural to her, seamless and unquestioned.
"There's no need," Richard replied without looking at her. "Shaw and Janos are together. If you call him, Shaw will know immediately."
He leaned back slightly.
"Since he said he'll be back in the evening, we'll wait."
With that, he walked to the nearby sofa, pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, and put them on. He sat casually, stretching out as if this were nothing more than a seaside vacation. The ocean breeze rolled across the deck, warm and salted by the Atlantic.
Emma watched him for a moment before speaking softly.
"I'll go back to the room."
"Go."
He didn't ask what she intended to do. He didn't care.
A few minutes later, footsteps returned to the sun deck.
Richard looked up—and unconsciously swallowed.
Emma was still dressed in white.
But no longer in the fitted skirt she had worn earlier.
Instead, she wore a white bikini that left little to the imagination. The fabric was minimal, precise, covering only what was absolutely necessary. Everything else—her long, sculpted legs, her narrow waist, the smooth curve of her hips—was displayed without restraint.
She stood at 178 centimeters, a height that gave her proportions closer to a runway model than an ordinary woman. Her legs were not only long but shapely, the lines clean and symmetrical. Even someone indifferent to legs would find it difficult not to stare.
Legs for years.
The phrase surfaced in Richard's mind without permission.
And it wasn't just the legs.
Her figure was balanced and striking. Curves in the right places. Skin luminous under the sun. A presence that awakened something primal and instinctive.
He had once told himself that women only slowed down the speed of drawing his sword.
But occasionally—very occasionally—it didn't seem unreasonable to pause.
Even through his sunglasses, Emma could feel his gaze moving over her. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't hidden.
She smiled faintly.
Earlier, in the suite at Caesars Palace, when he had teleported backward instead of taking advantage of her, she had briefly wondered whether she lacked appeal—or worse, whether he preferred men.
Now she knew.
His orientation was perfectly normal.
He was simply controlled.
Emma stepped forward, took a seat on the sofa opposite him, and stretched out in an intentionally provocative posture. One leg crossed slowly over the other.
She didn't speak immediately.
She didn't need to.
"Help me apply sunscreen," she said after a moment.
Richard stood up and walked toward her.
"No need for sunscreen," he said lightly.
Before she could react, he lifted her effortlessly in his arms.
"Which room?"
"Starboard guest room," she answered softly, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Teleportation activated.
The deck vanished.
They reappeared inside the guest bedroom, and he laid her down on the bed.
The rest of the afternoon dissolved into muted sounds behind closed doors—rhythmic, intimate, and unmistakably adult.
…
Night fell.
Inside the yacht's dining area, Richard sat across from Emma, tasting the dinner she had prepared.
She wasn't a professional chef. The meal was simple—classic American dishes, uncomplicated but well-prepared. He didn't mind.
In the starboard guest room earlier, she had proven that even if one called her a vase, she was the kind of vase one wouldn't easily discard—valuable, captivating, worth repeated attention.
As he ate, his thoughts drifted briefly to Clarice.
Chinese food still suited his palate better.
He wondered how she was doing at the mutant school.
Time passed quietly.
Just as they were finishing, Richard's movements paused.
"They're back," he said calmly. "And they brought guests."
Emma immediately extended her telepathy outward.
Within seconds, she sensed Shaw, Janos, and several additional presences boarding the yacht.
Neither of them attempted to invade Shaw's mind.
There was no point.
Unlike his cinematic counterpart, the Shaw of this universe was cautious to the point of paranoia. According to Emma, he wore a mind-shielding helmet most of the time—whether on the yacht, outside, or inside the Hellfire Club's private facilities.
Richard wasn't surprised.
This world had far more psychics than the films suggested.
In the movies, there were essentially two major telepaths—Professor X and Emma.
Here, the number was much higher.
Richard himself had already encountered—and eliminated—multiple psychics in just three months.
Even incomplete telepaths were dangerous.
Shaw's vigilance was logical.
The existence of Professor X alone justified constant protection. Governments around the world understood that reality. According to Emma, mind-shielding technology wasn't rare among high-level officials. The United States had distributed protective helmets to numerous top figures. Other nations had done the same.
Preventing psychic intrusion had become a global research priority.
Magneto was a visible threat—a nuclear bomb standing in plain sight.
Professor X, by contrast, was invisible. Unpredictable. A presence that could appear inside your head without warning.
That made him far more terrifying to governments.
Footsteps approached.
Moments later, Shaw, Janos, and several others entered the dining area.
They stopped.
Shaw's expression darkened slightly.
Janos frowned.
Seeing Richard seated calmly across from Emma at the dinner table was not something either of them had expected.
But Richard's attention was elsewhere.
His gaze shifted past them—to the figure standing just behind Shaw.
Middle-aged.
Magnetic presence.
Distinctive bearing.
Magneto.
Or more precisely—
A middle-aged version of Magneto's clone.
.....
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