His dark eyes seemed to grow even deeper, swallowing her up. They fell slowly to her mouth and stayed there as Jenna's breath rasped out of her on a shaky little sigh.
She knew she should step away from him now. There was no reason for them to remain this close, nothing but a few scant inches separating their bodies. Less than that amount of space between his mouth and hers. All it would take was a slight dip of his head or an upward tilt of hers and their lips would come together.
Jenna's pulse kicked at the thought of kissing Brock.
It had been the furthest thing from her mind when he'd carried her into this room. Nor even a few moments ago, when her fear and anger had her hissing and snarling like a wild animal caught in a hunter's trap.
But now, when he was standing so close she could feel the heat of his body radiating toward her, the spicy scent of his skin tempting her to put her head against him and breathe him in, kissing Brock was a secret urge that pulsed through her with every fluttering beat of her heart.
Maybe he knew what she was feeling.
Maybe he was feeling the same thing.
He ground out a harsh curse, then took a small step back from her, staring at her hard, scowling fiercely. "Ah, f**k ... Jenna ..."
When he reached up and tenderly caught her face in his big hands, all the air seemed to evaporate out of the room. Jenna's lungs froze in her chest, but her heart kept hammering, racing so fast she thought it might explode.
She waited, in terror and in hope, bewildered by the need she had to feel Brock's mouth on hers.
His tongue swept quickly over his lips, the movement giving her a glimpse of the sharp points of his fangs, glinting like diamonds. He cursed again, then withdrew to arm's length, leaving a chasm of cold air swimming in front of her where the heat of his body had been just a second before.
"I shouldn't be here right now," he murmured thickly. "And you need some rest. Make yourself comfortable. If there aren't enough blankets on the bed, you'll find more in my walk-in closet off the bathroom. Use whatever you like."
Jenna had to mentally shake herself back to conversation mode. "This, um ... are these your quarters?"
He gave a faint nod, already stepping out to the hallway. "They were.
Now they're yours."
"Wait a minute." Jenna drifted after him. "What about you? Do you have somewhere else to stay?"
"Don't worry about it," he said, pausing to look at her where she leaned against the doorjamb. "Get some rest, Jenna. I'll see you around."
Brock's blood was still coursing hotly in his veins a short while later, when he stood outside one of the last remaining residential suites and dropped his knuckles on the closed door.
"It is eleven minutes earlier than we agreed" came the deep, matter-of-fact voice of the Breed male on the other side.
The door swung open and Brock was skewered by a pair of unreadable bright gold eyes.
"Avon calling," Brock said by way of greeting as he lifted the black leather duffel bag that contained all the personal gear he'd taken from his quarters earlier that day. "And what do you mean, I'm not supposed to be here for eleven more minutes? Don't tell me you're going to be one of those uptight roomies who runs everything by the clock, my man. My choices were limited, seeing how you and Chase have the last two rooms left in the compound. And to tell you the truth, if Harvard and I had to share quarters, I'm not sure we'd both survive the week."
Hunter said nothing as Brock stepped past him and strode inside the room. He followed along to the bunk area, as stealthy as a ghost. "I thought you were someone else," he remarked somewhat belatedly.
"Yeah?" Brock pivoted his head around to look at the stoic Gen One, genuinely curious about the Order's newest, most reclusive member. Not to mention the fact that he was eager to steer his mind away from overheated thoughts about Jenna Darrow. "Who were you expecting besides me?"
"It is not relevant," Hunter replied.
"Okay." Brock shrugged. "Just trying to make conversation, that's all."
The Gen One's expression remained impassive, utterly neutral. Not surprising, considering the way the male had been raised--one of Dragos's homegrown assassins. Hell, the guy didn't even have a proper name. Like the rest of the personal army Dragos had bred off the Ancient, the Gen One had been referred to simply by his chief purpose in life: Hunter.
He'd come to the Order a few months ago, after Brock, Nikolai, and some of the other warriors had led a raid on a gathering of Dragos and his lieutenants. Hunter had been freed during the skirmish and was now allied against his maker in the Order's efforts to bring Dragos down.
Brock paused in front of the pair of double beds that sat on either side of the modest barracks-style bunk room. Both of them were made up with military precision, tan blanket and white sheets tucked in without a single wrinkle, a sole pillow meticulously arranged at the head of each bunk.
"So, which one do you want me to take?"
"It makes no difference to me."
Brock glanced back at the impassive face and inscrutable golden eyes.
"Then tell me which one you usually sleep in, and I'll take the other."
Hunter's flat stare didn't change one iota. "They are furniture. I have no attachment to either one."
"No attachment," Brock muttered around a low curse. "You can say that again, man. Maybe you can give me some pointers on that don't-give-a-damn-about-anything attitude of yours. I'm thinking it would come in real f**king handy from time to time. Especially when it comes to women."
With a growl, he tossed his gear onto the bunk at his left, then scrubbed his palm over his face and the top of his head. The groan that leaked out of him was ripe with frustration and the pent-up lust he'd been stifling since he'd forced himself to walk away from Jenna and the temptation he sorely didn't need.