• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Brock felt the tight fist in his grasp begin to loosen a fraction. “That’s it, my man. You’re better than this. Better than him.”

A cell phone trilled nearby. From his periphery, Brock saw Rowan put the mobile to his ear and pivot away to take the call. Chase was still huffing and dangerous, not yet willing to let Freyne loose.

“They got him,” Agent Rowan announced, his calm statement cutting through some of the tension. “Two of my Agents found the runner hiding under a delivery truck down by the wharfs. They’ve scrubbed his memory of what he witnessed and will drop him near a hospital on the other side of the city.”

Brock gave a faint nod of acknowledgment. “You hear that, Chase? It’s over. We’re done here.” He let go of Chase’s fist, trusting him not to escalate the situation with Freyne or any of the other Agents still gathered around, watching in anxious silence. “Let him go, Chase. This shit is finished.”

“For now,” Chase finally muttered, his voice rough and dark. He snuffled, shook off the hand Brock placed on his shoulder. With rage still rolling off him, he delivered one last punishing blow to Freyne’s battered face before springing up to his feet. “Next time I see you,” he growled, “you’re a dead man.”

“Come on, Harvard.” Brock steered him away from the area, not missing the pointed look that Mathias Rowan leveled on them as they headed back toward the Rover. “So much for diplomatic relations with the Agency, my man.”

Chase said nothing. He followed behind a couple of paces, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs, his body throwing off aggression like a nuclear blast.

“I hope we didn’t need that bridge back there, because you may have just torched it,” Brock said as they reached the vehicle.

Chase didn’t answer. Nothing but quiet at Brock’s back. Too much quiet, in fact.

He pivoted around. All he found was a lot of empty space where Chase had been standing just a second ago. He was gone, vanished without excuse or explanation, into the snowy night.

CHAPTER

Sixteen

A couple hours after dinner with Alex, Jenna was seated in the Breedmates’ war room, at the very conference table where she and Brock had opened a door that likely neither one of them had been prepared to walk through. But she tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about Brock’s sensual mouth on hers, or his skilled hands, which had given such intense pleasure even as he drew away her grief and inhibitions.

Instead, she rooted her attention on the discussion taking place between the women of the Order who were gathered in the room to review the status of their mission to locate the captives being held by Dragos. Only Tess was absent from the meeting, the pregnant Breedmate having apparently begged off to rest in her and Dante’s quarters while keeping little Mira company, as well.

“She’s not feeling ill, is she?” Alex asked. “You don’t think the baby might be coming early?”

Savannah gave a mild shake of her head as she rested her elbows on the table. “Tess says she feels great, just a little tired. It’s understandable. She’s down to just a few weeks now.”

There was the faintest hesitation in her voice, then her gaze drifted subtly toward Jenna. A silent curiosity lingered in her eyes. At that moment, Jenna noticed that Savannah’s palms were pressed against the table. Her slim black brows lifted slightly, and it was obvious from the partial quirk of her mouth that her Breedmate talent for reading objects with a touch had just told her—no doubt, in vivid detail—of the passionate kiss Jenna and Brock had shared on that very surface.

When embarrassment started to make Jenna look away, Savannah merely smiled in serene amusement and gave her a small nod as if to say she approved.

“You know, Dante’s got a pool going on the delivery date,” Dylan piped in. “Rio and I have our money on a Christmas baby.”

Renata shook her head, the blunt ends of her dark hair swinging around her chin. “New Year’s Eve, you wait and see. Dante’s son would