Gideon studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching, probing. “You still think he’s alive,” he concluded, shaking his head.

Since he claimed the dog he killed was Lenny—an absolute impossibility—yes.

“Have you heard from him?” Gideon pressed, his look knowing. “Has he come to class?”

“I haven’t seen him,” she admitted, “but that doesn’t mean anything. Kids skip class all the time. It doesn’t mean Lenny is dead or a—” She looked over her shoulder, fearful someone might overhear, but the stampede of students had dissipated to a lone boy, scuffing his sneakers on the pavement as he walked past, oblivious to them. Just the same, she whispered angrily, “Werewolves do not exist.”

His green eyes glittered at her with unwavering resolve. “Lycans,” he corrected.

“Whatever,” she spat back, perspiration trickling down her spine and dampening the small of her back.

“The longer you fight me, the less time we have to find the lycan that infected Lenny. If we don’t—”

“You’ll kill me, right?” Arching one brow in challenge, she held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t agree, that he was just crazy and not truly dangerous.

At his curt nod, her breath expelled from her body in a whoosh. Nothing ambiguous about that. “That’s not going to happen,” she vowed, her voice barely audible but no less determined.

He studied her, his green eyes shrewd, searching beyond her face into her very soul. As if seeing something there, he shook his head regretfully. “The lycan’s already gotten to you. It’s inside you. Maybe it’s already too late.”

“Because I won’t agree to you killing me?” She pressed a hand to her chest, her voice tight. “That’s basic self-preservation.”

He smiled, a hint of remorse in the curve of his well-shaped lips. “This isn’t you.”

“How do you know?” she countered hotly, even more angered because he happened to be right. She was different. Inside and out. “You don’t know me.” She waved a hand in front of her, encompassing herself with the gesture. “Maybe I’m like this all the time.”

“Are you?” he asked in an even, steady voice no less demanding for its mildness.

She lifted her arms wide at her sides. Instead of answering him directly, she exclaimed, “You’re threatening to kill me. That might give a woman a bit of an attitude.”

The wild urge to strike him overwhelmed her, but that would only confirm his accusations, so she restrained herself and added, “A lot of people would react aggressively.”

“Not you. You should have run for help by now. That’s what good girls do when they wake up and find a strange man in their apartment.” He stepped closer and the scent of him filled her nostrils—fresh cut wood, soap, and male musk. “You’re different,” he declared, “changed.”