Jenna Sinclair

“Roark reached for the 'link again, cursed himself for a fool, then turned away from it.
He wasn’t going to keep calling her, her friends, her haunts, hoping for a scrap.
Bugger that.
She’d be home when she came home. Or she wouldn’t.
Christ Jesus, where was she?
Why the hell was she putting him through this? He’d done nothing to earn it. God knew he’d done plenty along the way to earn her wrath, but not this time. Not this way.
Still, that look on her face that morning had etched itself in his head, on his heart, into his guts. He couldn’t burn it out.
He’d seen that look once or twice before, but not on his account.
He’d seen it when they’d gone to that fucking room in Dallas where she’d once suffered beyond reason. He’d seen it when she tore out of a nightmare.
Didn’t she know he’d cut off his own hand before he’d put that look on her face?
She bloody well should know it. Should know him.
This was her own doing, and she’d best get her stubborn ass home right quick so they could have this out as they were supposed to have things out. She could kick something. Punch something. Punch him if that would put an end to it. A good rage, that’s what was needed here, he told himself, then they’d be done with this nonsense once and for all.
Where the fucking hell was she?
He considered his own rage righteous, deserved—and struggled not to acknowledge it hid a sick panic that she didn’t mean to come back to him.
She’d damn well come back, he thought furiously. If she thought she could do otherwise, he had a bulletin for her. He’d hunt her down, by Christ, he would, and he’d drag her back where she belonged.
Goddamn it all, he needed her back where she belonged.
He paced the parlor like a cat in a cage, praying as he rarely prayed, for the remote in his pocket to beep, signaling the gates had opened. And she was coming home.”
― J.D. Robb, Innocent in Death