Helen’s gaze flitted over her, narrowing in displeasure. Claire guessed she hadn’t been in charge of her wardrobe. “This way” was all she muttered.

Claire followed her downstairs to a large dining room and a linen-covered table set for two. Darius stood with his back to her, the profile of his coldly handsome face gazing emotionlessly out a set of French doors overlooking a garden. Claire felt a stab of relief. Here was her chance to reason with him.

He turned, his frosty gaze skimming her in approval. “Thank you, Helen,” he said softly. “That will be all.”

Helen nodded and departed.

“Do you like the dress?” Darius asked, approaching her with his panther-like gait, his broad chest and shoulders rippling against his black shirt. “I chose it especially for you. You look beautiful.” He held out her chair for her.

She stared at where his broad hands rested on the back of her chair, noticing they were marked with several scars—clearly from his previous life. His life before he became a lycan. She moved and lowered herself into the seat. Swallowing, she opened her mouth and began. “I want you to let me go.”

He settled into his chair. “To return to your lycan hunter?” Uncorking a bottle of wine, he reached for her glass. “He will kill you, you know.”

“He was trying to help me.”

Darius lifted a dark brow skeptically. “Is that what he was doing when I found you and saved you?”

She flushed. “He could have killed me long ago.”

“I’m certain,” he smoothly cut in, adding, “and taking you to his bed is all part of his plan to save you.”

Claire reached for her wineglass, suddenly needing to do something with her hands. “What I chose to do is none of your business.”

He chuckled softly. “But it is. We’re bonded, Claire. Linked in a way that you will soon understand.”

She sipped the dark, sweet red wine. It was good and she was thirsty. She had to stop herself from gulping the entire glass down. She needed her wits tonight if she was going to convince Darius to let her go.

He set his glass back down and covered the top of her hand with his own. “Lycan agents kill lycans. They don’t save them. They don’t bend. Has it occurred to you that he might be toying with you?”

“No.” Despite the denial, she felt doubt sink in. She slid her hand from beneath his.

Sighing, he stood and removed a gleaming silver lid from the serving platter to reveal a roasted rack of lamb.

“Let’s consider your chances,” he said as he served her, his movements elegant and smooth. “The lycan who infected you is dead.”

She stabbed a succulent-looking new potato with her fork without answering.

“Any idea who infected him? What pack he belonged to? The alpha of his pack?”

She shook her head.