“Damn it, I said get out of my way!” She shoved at him, her palms connecting with his broad chest as she pushed with all the anger and fear she had inside her.

Brock flew backward several paces, nearly crashing into the far wall of the corridor.

Jenna sucked in her breath, stunned and amazed at what she’d just done.

Horrified by it.

Brock was a towering force, six and a half feet tall and likely 250-plus pounds of muscle and strength. Something far more powerful than her. Something far more powerful than anything she’d ever known.

And she had just physically shoved him a couple of feet across the floor.

His brows lifted over his surprised gaze. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, more wonder in his voice than anger.

Jenna brought her hands out before her and stared at them as though they belonged to someone else. “Oh, my God. How did I … What just happened?”

“It’s all right,” he said, walking back toward her with that maddeningly calm ease of his.

“Brock, I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he said, nodding soberly. “No worries. You didn’t hurt me.”

A bubble of hysteria climbed up the back of her throat. First, the shocking news that the implant was somehow altering her DNA, and now this—a strength that couldn’t possibly belong to her, yet somehow did. She thought back on her escape from the estate grounds and the bizarre language abilities that she’d seemed to have picked up since the Ancient had left a piece of himself embedded in her spinal cord.

“What the hell is happening to me, Brock? When will all of this finally stop?”

He took her trembling hands between his palms and held them steady. “Whatever is going on, you don’t have to go through it alone. You need to understand that.”

She didn’t know if he was speaking for everyone in the compound or himself. She had no voice to ask him for clarification. She told herself it didn’t matter what he meant, yet it didn’t keep her heart from racing as she stared up at him. Under the heat of his fathomless brown eyes, she felt the worst of her fears melt away.

She felt warm and protected, things she wanted to deny but couldn’t so long as Brock was holding her in his hands and in his gaze.

He frowned after a long moment and slowly released her hands, letting his palms skate down the length of her arms. It was a sensual caress, lingering too long to be mistaken for anything less than intimate. Jenna knew it, and she could see that he knew it, too.

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, fuck … 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.”