Relying completely on my own restraint to keep me away from her? Why, that was going to be some of the worst hell I’d ever endured.
There was no way I’d ever make it, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Chapter three
Jack
Itonlytookaboutan hour before my boots were crunching up the gravel driveway of the Durand home.
I slammed the front door shut behind me as I stepped into the house. It was more of a mini-mansion than a house, with half a dozen bedrooms and baths. The sharp scent of lemon cleaner just barely covered the coppery tinge of blood in the air.
It smelled like home.
I didn’t bother being quiet as I toed off my boots. My eyes flickered to the gouge in the wood floor next to my shoes, where I’d been eight and new to daggers. My dad, Darren, had scolded me for an hour over keeping my weapons in the training room, all while my other dads laughed.
“Jaquelynn?” an accented voice called out to me. “Is that you?”
Huffing, I stalked through the foyer, passing under the side sweeping staircases and through to the dining room. Lounging on one of the chairs of the long dining table was one of my dads, Wynn, a lazy grin on his lips and a glass of red liquid in his hand.
“Oh, it is you.” His head rolled, his dark hair brushing the edges of his shoulders as his dark blue eyes settled onto me. His face was still as handsome as it had been when he was changed, back in some part of Italy some few centuries ago. Something he decidedly didn’t like to talk about.
“I don’t know why you even ask. You can smell me the moment I walk in the door.” I reached out, plucked the glass out of his hands, and walked toward the kitchen. “You know dad hates when you get blood on the carpet.”
Some might call my dad, Darren, the butler, but he hadn’t been only that for years, not since before I was born. Now, he was more of the housekeeper. Keeping everything in line, the groceries stocked, and the house clean.
That was something that used to be my mom’s job, but nowadays, mom preferred to be deep in hunter and supernatural affairs as opposed to cleaning.
I didn’t fault her. From what my dads told me, she tended to break more things than clean them.
“I was still drinking that,” Wynn called out, chasing after me into the kitchen.
I set the glass on the island and reached for an apple out of the fruit bowl. “Then you can drink it here and not in the dining room.”
“I’ll have you know I haven’t spilled blood… accidentally… in over fifty years.” He huffed and slid on the barstool before his glass. “Besides, who’s the parent here? Shouldn’t I be telling you not to make a mess?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” I muttered to myself as I opened the fridge.
One would think that having seven dads would mean that I had every need taken care of and was treated like a virtual princess in my own home.
That might have been the case when I was little. However, at twenty-five, I felt more like the babysitter and sometimes referee more than anything else.
“You’re hurt,” Wynn said after a moment of silence.
Grabbing one of our cook Tabby’s pre-made meals out of the fridge, I closed it and turned to him. “Friendly fire.”
“You know she’s not going to care.” Wynn lifted a perfectly arched brow.
I popped the lid off the container, breathing in the aroma of the chicken parmesan before thrusting it into the microwave. Leaning against the counter, I crossed my arms and frowned. “And how many times have you healed her over the years?”
Wynn didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” I pointed out. “And it’s nothing. Hardly noticeable.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Wynn chuckled.
I blew out a long breath, eyes locking onto the redhead that had just stepped into the kitchen. Not bothering to answer the unasked question, I brought the image of what happened to the forefront of my mind while I searched for a clean fork.
