"Oh, my God." Jenna's voice was soft, her brow creased with sympathy. "That's awful."
"Yeah, it was," he said, recalling all too well the horror of what had been done to her, before and after she'd been killed. Three months in the water hadn't made what was left of her any easier to look at.
"I'm sorry," Jenna said again, and reached out to rest her palm against the bulk of his biceps.
He tried to ignore the sudden flare of awareness that blazed through him at the contact. But attempting to tune out his attraction to her was like telling fire to not be hot. Touch it, and you still got burned. As he was burning now, when he glanced down to where Jenna's pale hand lingered over his darker skin.
When he lifted his gaze back to hers, he could tell by her subtle, indrawn breath that his eyes were likely alive with sparks of amber light, their transformation betraying his desire for her. She swallowed but didn't look away.>"Gladly. All this talk of missions and women reminds me that I have important duties of my own that I've been neglecting back in my quarters."
Brock grunted. "Give Alex my best."
Kade merely grinned as he saluted him, then strolled toward the exit.
After he was gone, Brock lingered under the water only a few minutes longer. It was late in the day, but he was too wired for sleep. And Kade's reminder about Jenna and her changing biology had his mind churning.
He toweled off, then got dressed in a gray T-shirt and dark jeans. He stomped into his black leather boots, feeling the sudden urge to head back into the weapons room and blow off more steam until nightfall, when he could finally escape the compound again. But working up a sweat hadn't done him much good the first time; he doubted it would do anything for him now.
Uncertain what would take off his edge, Brock found himself stalking down the central corridor of the compound, toward the tech lab. The halls were quiet, deserted. Not surprising for the time of day, when the mated warriors would be in bed with their females and the rest of the headquarters'
occupants would be getting some rest before patrols rolled out at sundown.
Brock probably should have been thinking about that, too, but he was more interested in knowing if Gideon had turned up anything more about Jenna's blood work results. As he entered the stretch of corridor that would take him to the lab, he heard movement in another of the compound's meeting rooms.
Following the sound of shuffling papers, he drew to a pause outside the open door of the Breedmates' mission command center.
Jenna was alone inside the room.
Seated at the conference table, several manila file folders fanned out before her and a couple more stacked neatly at her elbow, she was bent over a pad of paper, pen in hand and thoroughly engrossed in whatever she was writing. At first, he didn't think she knew he was there. But then her hand paused halfway down the page, her head lifting. The soft brown layers of her hair shifted like silk as she pivoted to see who was standing in the doorway.
That had been his cue to duck away fast, before she saw him. He was Breed; he could have been there and gone before her mortal eyes could register his presence. Instead, for some idiotic reason he had no interest in examining, he took a step inside and cleared his throat.
Jenna's hazel gaze went wider when she saw him.
"Hey," he said.
She gave him a brief smile, looking more than a little caught off-guard by him. And why shouldn't she be, after the way he'd left things with her the last time he saw her? She pulled one of the file folders over and set it on top of her notepad. "I thought everyone had gone to bed."
"They have." He walked farther into the room and made a quick visual scan of the information spread out on the table. "Looks like Dylan and the others have managed to recruit you already."
She shrugged, a weak denial. "I was just ... looking at a few things.
Comparing notes on some of the files, jotting down a couple of my thoughts."
Brock took a seat in the chair next to her. "They'll appreciate that," he said, impressed that she was lending a hand. He reached for the notes she'd been writing. "Can I have a look?"
"It's nothing much, really," she said. "Sometimes it just helps to have a fresh pair of eyes."
He glanced at her crisp, precise handwriting that filled most of the page. Her mind seemed to operate in the same organized manner, based on the logical flow of her notes and the list of suggestions she'd made for investigating the missing persons cases that Dylan and the other Breedmates had been pursuing for the past few months.
"This is good work," he said, not flattery, just fact. "I can tell you're a damned good cop."
Again the denying shrug. "I'm not a cop anymore. I've been out of it a long time."
He watched her speak, heard the regret that lingered in her voice.
"Doesn't mean you're not still good at what you do."
"I stopped being good at it a while ago. Something happened, and I ...