“Listen.” He clutched the fragile arms of her wicker chair as if battling for patience. “Your life is in danger. You need my help.”

Why couldn’t he just answer her question?

“He’s not dead,” she charged, shaking her head vigorously. “No way.” This intruder living under some very unhealthy delusions could hardly be counted on as a reliable source of information.

“He’s dead.” His voice broke through her denial with the viciousness of a whip. “And you will be too if you don’t get a grip and start worrying about your own ass.”

She tapped her chest with the curling iron. “Why am I in danger?”

He didn’t answer her. Again. Funny how he had a way of doing that whenever she asked a direct question. When her students didn’t immediately answer her, it was because they had something to hide. Her eyes widened, sweeping over him and suddenly she understood. She knew. She knew.

“You killed Lenny!” How else would he know for certain Lenny was dead? She staggered back and bumped into the wall so hard it rattled the picture frames.

“No,” he corrected, then added in a somewhat quieter voice, “I destroyed a lycan who used to be your student.”

“You’re insane!” Her lips worked silently as she struggled for an epithet foul enough to hurl at him.

“Listen. Lenny was a lycan. And as of Friday night, so are you. If you need proof, look at your shoulder where he bit you.”

Yeah, right. As if she would take her gaze off him to inspect her shoulder.

“Go look in the mirror,” he snapped, unfolding his great length from her chair. “See how insane I am.”

She slid farther along the wall, creeping slow inch by slow inch toward the bedroom doorway. “Stay back!”

He gestured at her shoulder impatiently. “Just look, damn it!”

She flinched at his raised voice. His sheer size coupled with his not so minor confession of murder left no doubt that the time for talking was over. She flung the curling iron at his head and bolted. His muffled curse told her the curling iron made contact.

Door, door, door. The word pounded through her mind like the heavy beat of a drum. She had to reach the door before—

A hand slammed down on her shoulder and spun her around. His other one muffled her scream as he hauled her against him, muttering, “Lady, don’t make me regret helping you.”

Helping her? Right. He was a regular Good Samaritan.

Keeping one hand on her mouth, he locked his other arm around her waist and lifted her off the carpet, imprisoning her against the rock-hard length of him. She landed a couple solid kicks to his shins with her heels. He grunted but still managed to carry her to the bathroom and drop her in front of the mirror.