His stare penetrated, seeming to bore right through her. "It's all about control with you, Jenna. You just can't stand to give it up, can you?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"No? I'll bet you were like this from the time you were a little girl."
She turned away from him while he was talking, determined not to let him goad her. She grabbed an armful of books and carried them over to the built-in shelves. "I'll bet you've been like this your whole life, haven't you?
Everything's got to be on your terms, isn't that right? Never let anyone take the reins, no matter what. You don't budge an inch unless you've got your sweet, stubborn ass planted firmly in the driver's seat."
As much as she wanted to deny it, he was hitting very close to home.
She flashed back through the years of her childhood, all the playground fights and daredevil stunts she'd gotten dragged into just to prove that she wasn't afraid. Her time in the police force had been more of the same, though on a grander scale, upgrading from fists to bullets, but still struggling to show she was as good as any man--better, even.
Marriage and motherhood had presented another set of obstacles to master, and that was the one area in which she'd failed miserably. Paused in front of the bookcase, Brock's verbal challenge hanging behind her, she closed her eyes and remembered the argument she and Mitch had the night of the accident. He'd accused her of being stubborn, too. He'd been right, but she hadn't realized that until she'd woken up in the hospital weeks later without her family.
But this was different. Brock wasn't her husband. Just because they'd had a few moments of pleasure together--and despite the attraction that still crackled between them whenever they got near each other--that didn't give him a license to impose himself on her decisions.
"You want to know what I think?" she asked, her movements clipped with irritation as she filed each book back in its rightful place on the shelves.
"I think you're the one with the problem. You wouldn't know what to do with a woman who doesn't need you looking after her. A real woman, who can survive just fine on her own and not let you hold yourself responsible if she gets hurt. You'd rather blame yourself for not living up to some imaginary bar you've set--some unattainable measure of honor and worth. If you want to talk about problems, try taking a good look at yourself."
He had gone so quiet and still, Jenna thought he might have walked out of the room. But when she turned around to see if he had left, she found him standing near the sofa, holding the old photograph that she'd first discovered tucked into the pages of one of his books. He was staring at the image of the pretty young woman with the ebony hair and large almond eyes. His jaw was held tight, a tendon ticking hard in his smooth, dark cheek.
"Yeah, maybe you're right about me, Jenna," he said finally, letting the photo drift out of his grasp to the sofa cushion. When he looked over at her, his face was schooled and sober, the consummate warrior. "None of this changes the fact that I am responsible for you. Lucan made it my duty to keep you protected while you're in the Order's custody--"
"Custody?" she balked, but he spoke right over her.
"--and that means whether you like it or not, whether you approve or not, I do have a say in what you do, or who you come in contact with."
She scoffed, outraged. "Like hell you do."
He stalked over to her, barely three long strides before he was standing right up against her, the nearness of him sucking all the air from the room. Glittering heat lit his eyes from deep within. His fierce stare likely should have cowered her, but she was too hot with indignation--and too very much aware of the way her senses reached out to him in longing, despite the anger that made her chin jut upward. When she glared at him, casting inside herself for the tough-as-nails attitude that might have given her the strength to shove him away with harsh words or prickly defiance, she found it had deserted her.
All she could do was hold the breath that had suddenly gone shallow in her lungs. He ran his fingertips along the side of her cheek, such a skating, tender touch. His thumb lingered on her lips, stroking in a lazy pattern as his eyes drank her in for what seemed like forever.
Then he gathered her face in his palms and drew her toward him for a sizzling, and all-too-brief, kiss.
When he released her, she saw the sparks that glimmered in his eyes had now grown to bright, smoldering embers. His chest was firm and warm against hers, his arousal pressing bold and unmistakable against her hip. She staggered backward on her heels, a blaze of desire racing in her veins.
"You can fight me all you want on this, Jenna, I don't fucking care."
Although his words were all business, his low voice vibrated through her like the coming of a storm. "You are mine to protect and keep safe, so make no mistake: If you leave the compound, you leave with me."
Chapter Eighteen
Brock made good on his intent to accompany her to the FBI meeting in New York.
Jenna didn't know what he'd said to Lucan to persuade him, but later that morning, instead of Renata driving the Order's black Range Rover through four hours of unfamiliar highway from Boston to Manhattan, it had been Jenna behind the wheel, with GPS on the dashboard and Brock trying to help navigate from the far back of the vehicle. His solar-sensitive Breed skin cells and daytime UV concerns had kept him from even thinking he could sit beside her up front for such a long trip, let alone do the driving.
Although it was probably beyond immature for her to be amused, Jenna had to admit she took a certain satisfaction in his mandatory banishment to the seat behind her. She hadn't forgotten his accusation about her always needing to be the one in charge, but judging from the impatient driving advice and muttered commentary about the apparent lead in her foot, it was obvious that she wasn't the only one who had a problem surrendering control.
And now, as they sat inside the dark cavern of an underground parking garage across the street from the FBI field office in New York City, Brock was still giving her orders from the backseat.
"Text me as soon as you're past security." At her nod, he went on.
"Once you're in your meeting with the agent, text me again. I want periodic text check-ins, no less than fifteen minutes apart or I'm coming in after you."
Jenna huffed out an impatient sigh and shot him a look around the driver's seat. "This isn't a middle school dance. It's a professional office meeting in a very public building. Unless something goes totally off the rails in there, I'll text you when I get into the meeting and when it's over."