He stared at the road, lips pressed tightly together as if he could hold back the truth.

“It wasn’t just talk,” she insisted. “He really believed I wanted it.”

At this point, he knew he couldn’t keep the truth from her any longer.

Considering the vibes she put out, the lycan hadn’t been far off. She did want it. She just didn’t realize it yet. Had it only been yesterday that they had nearly fucked on the floor of her family’s lake house? It had taken every ounce of restraint to reject what she so eagerly offered and slam those cuffs on her wrists.

It was foolish, even unrealistic of him, but he had hoped to avoid telling her. There had been enough revelations yesterday. She didn’t understand her urges. But he did. He had seen the way she responded to Mr. Black Leather Pants in the bar. The woman needed a chastity belt with one very big lock.

Hell, she could be lying on her back under him right now if he only crooked a finger. That image made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and his hands clenched the steering wheel. No way around it. He had to tell her. Then maybe she would understand. Maybe she could fight it. Because, God help him, he found it harder and harder to resist her.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

“Lycans follow… primitive urges,” he began, searching for the appropriate wording.

She waved impatiently for him to continue.

“They feed and they procreate. The objective being to further the species.” He shrugged and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. “Simple, really.”

Her look told him she disagreed.

“What are you saying?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

And that, he guessed, was because she didn’t want to. He knew her well enough at this point to realize she had a hard time accepting ugly truths.

“It’s not conscious. It’s instinctual,” he elaborated.

“Procreate?” she echoed.

“You know, to reproduce—”

“I know what it means,” she snapped.

“They’re a pack society. A lone female of childbearing years, without any other lycans—male lycans—protecting her, is a prime target.”

She leaned back in her seat, her head bouncing against the headrest several times. “Unbelievable. I’m a sex target,” she muttered. Her head shot off the seat, apparently struck with a sudden thought. “And you sent me out tonight without telling me any of this?”

“I wanted you calm.”

“I could have better prepared myself.”

“It would have gone down the same. You were already freaked out enough. Now look at you. You’re nearly hysterical.”

“I am not hysterical,” she said tightly, trying, he guessed, to keep herself from yelling and lending credence to his claim. “So you’re saying that as long as I’m without a pack, every werewolf we come across will want to jump my bones?”