Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(33)

She didn’t bother to turn; she could see his reflection in the window. The lean, hard body. The stark features that were shadowed with weariness. The hazel gaze that was checking out her ass.

He might be tired, but he was all male.

“You know I won’t answer that question,” she said.

He strolled to halt beside her. “You don’t think I have a right to know?”

“It’s not my place to make those decisions.” She shrugged. “You’re welcomed to return to the Mave and ask her if you want.”

He snorted at her helpful suggestion. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks.”

She turned to study him with a lift of her brows. “Does it matter?”

“Only if they’re dangerous.”

“We have our own method of dealing with dangerous high-bloods.”

“Hunters?”

She nodded at the mention of the Sentinels who chased down renegades. Even now they were on the trail of a murderous high-blood who was creating chaos through Texas.

“Sometimes.”

“And other times?”

“Psychics. Witches.” She grimaced. “And Wolfe.”

“Wolfe?”

“The head of the Sentinels. No one wants to piss him off,” she said before giving a sudden shake of her head. “Well, except the Mave. She does it on a regular basis.”

“I’m not remotely surprised.”

“Sometimes I think—” She bit off her words, startled to discover she’d come close to confessing her suspicion that there were more than control issues that set off sparks between the Tagos and the Mave.

What was it about Duncan that made her feel as if she could share her most private thoughts and feelings?

It was ... unnerving.

His brow furrowed. “Callie?”

“I should let you get some rest,” she abruptly said, turning to head for the door. “You can use the phone if you need to call your chief.”

“Wait.”

With a swift motion he was blocking her path, his hands lightly grasping her upper arms.

“It’s late,” she protested, her heart fluttering at his gentle touch. “We can talk in the morning.”

His gaze slid over her face, lingering on her lips before returning to meet her wary eyes. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

She shivered. The heat of his fingers seared her skin, sending jolts of sensual electricity darting through her body. “Duncan,” she breathed.

His hooded gaze sparked with gold in the dim overhead light. “Can I hold you?”

She licked her dry lips. “What?”

His fingers stroked up and down the back of her arm. “We’re both tired and more than a little freaked out.”

“True.”

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Is that another cheesy line?”

“Not this time.” His expression was oddly somber. “I just want to feel you in my arms while I sleep.”

Her heart missed a beat at the simple words. She’d never had a man who just wanted to hold her. Actually, most men who were willing to have sex with her would have been horrified by the thought of sharing her bed.

She did, after all, peer into the minds of the dead.

The fact that Duncan genuinely seemed to want to hold her touched her in a deep, vulnerable place.

“Oh.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Too cheesy?”

Cheesy? It was ... perilously perfect.

Dammit.

“No,” she husked.

His jaw tightened, as if preparing to be rejected. “But?”

There was a tense pause as Callie silently weighed her options.

Logic warned that she should walk out the door and never look back.

She didn’t understand what was happening between her and Duncan O’Conner, though she did know that it was more than the usual lust for a prime stud-muffin.

But she didn’t want to be logical.

Not tonight.

She might be accustomed to her lonely bed, she might even have convinced herself she preferred to be on her own, but as Duncan had pointed out, it had been a long, freaky day. No doubt the first of many.

Why shouldn’t she enjoy a few hours wrapped in the arms of this gorgeous, drop-dead sexy cop?

A small smile curved her lips. “I don’t have my nightie.”

An undefinable emotion flared through the hazel eyes as Duncan moved with a speed that would have rivaled a Sentinel to scoop her off her feet.

“That’s okay,” he rasped, headed toward the bedroom. “Neither do I.”

She allowed herself to relax against the hard muscles of his chest, her gaze caught by the golden stubble that shadowed the line of his jaw.

He was so ... male.

Uncompromisingly, ruthlessly male.

And yet, he held her with a gentle care that was oddly reassuring.

He might be aggressive and even violent when necessary, but he would never, ever harm her.

“I don’t believe you wear a nightie.”

“Some night soon I’ll show you just what I do or don’t wear,” he promised with a wicked grin. “Tonight there are a couple robes hanging in the bathroon.” Entering the comfortable, if impersonal bedroom done in shades of black and silver, he lowered her until her feet were touching the carpet. “You can use the bathroom first.”