“He was one of them. He attacked you. Bit you. And now you’re one of them, too.” He spoke as if he were explaining something very basic. As if she were a child. As if she were stupid.

“A dog attacked me. Not Lenny,” she said in a voice that left no doubt which of them she considered mentally deficient.

“It was Lenny,” he said with quiet certainty, then repeated as vaguely as before, “and now you’re one of them.”

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Had she been involved in some sort of gang initiation and didn’t know it?

“What are you talking about?” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “One of who?”

“Lycans,” he said as though the term might ring a bell. When she didn’t respond, he explained, “Sort of like a werewolf. Only not like in the movies. Werewolves are Hollywood. Lycans are the real deal.”

“Werewolves,” she echoed, her gaze darting about again, renewing her search for a weapon, something better than a curling iron.

“You’re a lycan,” he said blandly, lacking the passion such a declaration might warrant—especially shouted from the padded room of the asylum where he must normally reside.

She didn’t move, didn’t speak, afraid anything she chose to say might set him off.

“You’re a lycan,” he repeated in the same mild tone. For all the emotion in his voice he could have been the anonymous person taking her order at a drive-through. “In a very short time you’ll be a perfect killing machine.”

“I see.” Her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. With the utmost care, she adopted a slow, placating tone and said, “Let me get this straight. I’m a werewolf. And Lenny—” She stopped cold, recalling his exact words. Was. All need to placate fled.

“What do you mean was?” she demanded, fighting back the urge to shout. “What happened to Lenny?”

“He’s dead.” Again, the flat voice.

“Dead,” she murmured, her arm falling lifelessly to her side, her fingers loose around her weapon. Dead. The word rolled over her in a numbing fog. No. Not Lenny. He couldn’t be dead. He never got a chance to live. Not the kind of life he deserved, anyway.

“And you will be too if you don’t start listening to me.”

“Lenny,” she whispered, shaking her head.

“Listen to me.” His biting command cut through her spinning thoughts, through the sorrow threatening to swallow her. “You don’t have time to grieve. I need—”

“How do you know he’s dead?” Her gaze leapt back to his face. Why should she believe this man?

His mouth pressed shut and he glared at her.

Heedless of her own well-being, she lurched nearer, jabbing the curling iron in the air. “How do you know?” she demanded.