Reflexively she drew her arm back to strike him again, but Sloan muttered an oath and wrenched her down to sprawl on top of him. Heather gasped in outrage and struggled to rise, but his arms wrapped around her waist.

“Let me go!” she cried.

She stuck out at him, letting all her frustration and pain and rage surface in a feeling of explosion; her fists swung at his shoulders, his chest, his jaw—any part of him she could reach.

Venting another curse, Sloan rolled over with her, pinning her beneath his weight. When she twisted under him and tried to claw at his face, he captured her flailing hands to hold her arms above her head.

He no longer looked drunk; he looked dangerous. His eyes seared her, smoky and furious, as he stared down at her.

Heather returned his icy gaze measure for measure. “Damn you, let go of me!” she demanded again. “You have no right to touch me.”

“I’ll touch you if I want! You’re my wife.”

She retorted through clenched teeth, “You can go to the devil!”

The animosity between them clashed like swords, throwing off sparks of fierce emotion. Sloan’s hard, virile face hovered over hers, the weight of his lean, powerful body pressing her down. Rage and raw tension vibrated between them… along with an abrupt, pulsing sexual awareness.

Heather flinched, feeling the granite outline of Sloan’s manhood against her thigh.

Neither of them heard the door swing open, but they both froze at the quietly lethal voice.

“You want to let the lady go, Sloan?”

Wolf stood in the doorway, his features hard, expressionless.

Sloan stared at him a moment, as if trying to understand the question. Then abruptly, he released Heather and rolled off her.

She rose shaking from the bed and fled past Wolf, into the hall.

Lying back, Sloan clutched his aching head, which had started swimming again.

The silence drew out. Wolf was still looking at him grimly, he realized. The half-breed hadn’t said another word, but the disapproval on his dark features spoke volumes.

Wolf turned quietly then and picked up the lamp. Just as quietly, he left the room, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

Sloan squeezed his eyes shut. God, what had he done?

The whiskey-hazed stupor washed over him once more, along with a wave of acute shame. Heather was right; he was stinking drunk. Too damned drunk to tell her he was sorry.

Sorry for scaring her. Sorry for ever letting her into his life. Sorry for trying to drive her away.

In the hallway, Heather stood with her hand clenched over her stomach as she fought tears of despair and anguish. She heard the bedroom door shut softly, but she didn’t glance up till Wolf touched her arm.

There was concern and compassion in his dark eyes. “You okay?”