The fact that she was actually a brunette seemed to please him. Jenna had been dyeing her hair off and on ever since she had begun to go gray prematurely at the age of twenty. An overwhelming majority of gifted ones apparently had black hair. He did know of two, however, who had brown hair.
He hadn’t asked her if she wanted to be transformed, probably because it wasn’t as easy a decision to make as one might think. If she were transformed, Jenna would outlive her son, the grandchildren he would give her in the future, and their grandchildren, too.
Shaking off the somber thoughts, Jenna finished washing the breakfast dishes and dried her hands on the towel hanging beside the sink.
“What time is Richart coming over?” John asked, still poring over one of his textbooks at the table. He wouldn’t have to leave for his first class for another hour.
“I don’t know. He said it might be a late night and didn’t want to talk because his sister and another immortal were with him and would overhear.”
“Ahh.”
In the next breath, Richart appeared in the living room. He wore his usual vampire hunting togs: black shirt, black pants, long black coat, daggers and throwing stars in every loop and pocket and sheath. Smudges of blood adorned his upper lip and chin, as if someone had punched him hard enough to break his nose. His eyes glowed a vibrant amber. His features, when he caught and held her gaze, bore an intensity that sucked the breath from her lungs.
“What happened?” Jenna asked, closing the distance between them.
Looping an arm around her waist, he yanked her to him and claimed her lips in a long, passionate kiss.
Jenna forgot everything as fire burned through her and every nerve ending sprang to life. Forgot the blood on his chin. Forgot the weapons weighing him down and poking her as he pressed her against him. Forgot her son.
By the time Richart raised his head, she was as breathless as though she had just run the 400-meter relay.
Richart looked over her shoulder and nodded abruptly. “John.”
“Hey,” John said, sounding stunned.
“Excuse us, please.” As soon as Richart finished the husky proclamation, he whisked them to his bedroom in his home.
Jenna had no time to ask him what was wrong. He went to work, removing their clothing at preternatural speeds. His kiss was fierce, his hands aggressive in their exploration of her, turning her body to liquid fire.
Richart said nothing, the need to touch Jenna, to feel her against him, overwhelming. He was so desperate for her. He worried he might be hurting her until she wrapped her legs around him and begged for more.
Tossing her onto the bed, he dove after her. There was little foreplay this time. He needed her too much. As soon as he felt how wet she was for him, he sank inside, taking her fast and hard with strong, powerful strokes.
Jenna clutched Richart closer, panting, pleasure rising. His touch contained a hint of desperation, a roughness that had never been there before and excited her above and beyond. She cried out as ecstasy consumed her, reveled in hearing her name on Richart’s lips as he came soon after.
Her muscles went limp.
Richart sank down on her, forearms braced on the bed to keep the bulk of his weight off of her. “Did I hurt you?” he murmured.
“No. It was fantastic.”
He nodded, face buried in the crook of her neck, and rolled them to their sides, still joined.
Jenna waited for her heartbeat to slow its frantic pace. Richart never loosened his hold on her, cradling her close.
“Did something happen at work today?” she asked tentatively.
A moment passed. “We lost some good people tonight.”
“Oh, no.” She rubbed his back in soothing strokes. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was bad. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. We had no warning.” He loosened his hold and relaxed a little, resting his head beside hers on the pillow so their noses almost touched. “You know the immortal I always complain about having to hunt with?”
“Bastien?”
“Yes. He’s in love with a mortal and almost lost her today. I was with him while he sat there, agonizing and blaming himself, waiting to hear if . . .” He shook his head. “I just kept thinking . . . what if it were me? What if it were us? What if you had been harmed?” He stroked her face with gentle fingers. “I love you, Jenna.”
Her throat thickened.
“I know it may seem too soon,” he continued.
It didn’t. Not for her.
“But I love you. I do.”
Jenna pressed a hand to his jaw and smoothed her thumb across his stubbled cheek. “I love you, too.”
He closed his eyes, turned his face into her touch. “The thought of losing you was too much. I needed to hold you. To lose myself in you.” He urged her closer. “I just needed to be with you.”
She could live with that.
Quiet enfolded them.
The corners of his lips twitched.
“What?” she asked.
“I think we may have shocked John.”
She laughed. “Somehow I think this won’t be the last time.”
He smiled. “I think you may be right.”
“So. You spending the day with Jenna?” Sheldon asked as Richart donned his coat.
He nodded.
“What’s wrong? You guys have a fight or something?”
“I feel guilty,” Richart confessed. “She works long hours all night, then I keep her up most of the day. It’s wearing on her.”
“Mentally or physically?”
“Physically. She tries to hide it, but she’s exhausted. There are circles under her eyes. She keeps getting headaches. And she’s so run down she’s caught that flu that’s going around.”
“That sucks. Try to get her to go to sleep earlier.”
Richart smiled wryly. “I always intend to, but . . .”
Sheldon smiled. “I hear ya. Hey, do you want me to make her some chicken soup?”
“No. I’ve tasted your chicken soup. I want her to feel better not worse.”
“Smart ass.”
Richart teleported to Jenna’s living room and found John waiting for him.
John raised a finger to his lips, then motioned for Richart to accompany him outside.
Puzzled, Richart followed him out onto the landing and waited while he closed the door behind them.
“Something’s wrong,” John said without preamble.
Richart frowned. “What?”
“You need to talk Mom into seeing that doctor you mentioned.”
“Dr. Lipton? I already tried once. Jenna said doctors can’t do anything for the flu unless they catch it in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, that it just needs to run its course.”
“This isn’t the flu. It’s been two weeks.”
Richart nodded. “Dr. Lipton mentioned that some of her colleagues who came down with it took a couple of weeks to recover, that it was quite a nasty strain.” Richart hadn’t been sick in over two centuries, so he relied on Dr. Lipton and Jenna to apprise him of how these things usually went.
“I’m telling you,” John insisted, “this isn’t the flu. It’s something else.”
“How can you be so sure?” Jenna seemed sure.
“Because Mom doesn’t get the flu.”
“She’s never had it before?” Wasn’t the flu fairly common among humans?
“I’m saying she doesn’t get sick. Period.”
Alarm bells sounded. “Ever?”
“Ever. She’s never even had a cold. Not that I can remember.”
Jenna sure as hell hadn’t told him that. “She had food poisoning a month ago.”
“I’m not convinced that’s what that was.” John looked away, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Look, I like you, Richart, and I don’t want there to be any tension between us for Mom’s sake, but I have to ask. . . . Have you been biting her?”