“You are such a . . . why do you . . . oh!”

He put his arms around Carrie’s shoulders. “Stop. It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.”

“No, Van. For once you don’t know shit.” She glanced back at him. “And what, exactly, makes you think Irene Conridge will let you mark her?”

“Because the woman couldn’t care less. If the means to an end keeps her breathing, she’ll agree.”

“Not on your life, Van Holtz.”

Irene stormed into the kitchen, Van Holtz right on her heels.

“You’re being unreasonable. If this is all I have to do to keep you alive, what does it matter?”

Normally she’d agree with him. Normally, she’d turn around, pull her hair out of the way, and let the man have at it. Then she’d go on about her life and hopefully never see him again. But something, she didn’t know what, kept telling her that would be a mistake. A mistake she would never recover from.

“No.”

“I thought we were friends now.”

“We are. That’s why I can be clear and concise without fear of reprisal. And the answer is definitely no.”

Van Holtz let out one of his dramatic “look what I have to put up with” sighs and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Irene, don’t you want to go home?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you give me two minutes and you can be out of here.”

“Or I can just leave.”

“And not live through the night.”

“And that affects you how?”

“I made a commitment.”

“Yes. You did. And I do truly appreciate it. But I’m not going to do this. Nor am I letting you do this. I’ll just go.”

Irene stepped away from him and that’s when his fingers closed around her wrist, halting her. She tried to pull her arm away, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“I’m not joking, Van Holtz. Get off me.”

“I’m not joking either. I won’t be responsible for you dying.”

“You aren’t. I am. I absolve you of all wrongdoing in this matter. Now get the hell off me!”

She yanked her arm again and, with a growl, the presumptuous bastard yanked her back against his chest. Slamming her foot into his instep and her elbow into his face, she distracted him enough to release her and she tried to scramble away.

But he was fast. His big arms wrapped around her waist and dragged her toward him. Irene gripped the sink and held on.

Van Holtz wasn’t giving up, though. He pulled her back and her fingers slipped. Spotting a frying pan in the drying bin, Irene reached for it. He’d already taken a two-by-four to the head; a frying pan would probably cause just enough damage to get her free and away. Her fingers slid across a metalhandle and she grabbed blindly for it. Van Holtz swung her around, and Irene lashed out but only hit him in the leg.

Then they stared at each other in shock before they both looked down at his leg . . . and the lovely chef’s knife protruding from his denim-covered thigh.

Horrified, Irene stepped back. “Oh, my . . . I mean . . .” She looked up to what had to be the angriest face she’d ever seen. “I swear, Van Holtz. I swear that was an accident.”

Van Holtz didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The expression on his face called her a liar, and the way his eyes shifted from human to wolf in a heartbeat told her she needed to run—now!

Irene made a wild leap for the door but she didn’t even get near the opposite counter before she heard that snarl and the loud clang of the knife hitting the kitchen floor, then those big arms wrapped around her one more time. He slammed her against the wall with her back to him, using his body weight to hold her in place.

She tried to push herself away from the wall but his knee pressed between her thighs, throwing her off balance, and he used his chest to force her back against the wall.

Irene knew she could have begged him to stop. Pleaded with him. Or simply asked him nicely. But, for some unknown reason that until the end of time she’d never understand, she decided fighting would be a better route.

Growling, she slammed her hand down onto his open wound and dug her fingers in. She’d apparently shoved that knife in far, because her fingers sank in deep and Van Holtz roared in pain. He didn’t let her go, though. Instead he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head to the side.

She made one last-ditch effort to get him off her by pushing back, but the big bastard wouldn’t budge. And then those fangs sank deep into her shoulder and Irene cried out in pain.

In retaliation, she dug her fingers in deeper but those damn fangs locked into her flesh even harder.

After several agonizing and rather physically painful moments, Van Holtz unhinged his jaw and released her while she unhooked her fingers from his wound.

With both of them panting, Irene rested her forehead against the wall and Van Holtz rested his against her shoulder.

For two people who prided themselves on always being in control, she considered this a rather tragic moment.

At what point had he lost control? When she’d stabbed him with that knife? Yeah. He had gotten a little angry there. Or when she’d tried to run? Yeah. That had annoyed him a bit.

Yet none of that had pushed him over the edge. Niles Van Holtz had lost control when she’d told him no.

It wasn’t ego either. It was something else. He could almost say he had been kind of hurt when she’d said no with so much finality and a wee bit of vehemence. As if he’d suggested something so horrendous.