“Please, call me Dieter.” He sat down in a chair across from her. “So how are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I get my stitches out today.”

“Good. Good. I hope my family has treated you right.”

“Yes. They’re quite polite.”

He grinned. “Polite?”

She shrugged. “Polite is satisfactory for me. I really don’t expect or want much more than that.”

“I see. And my son? Was he . . . polite?”

“I wouldn’t call him polite . . . but he was definitely pleasant.”

“Do you like my son, Dr. Conridge?”

Irene closed her book and stared at the older Van Holtz. “I don’t dislike him. But that was recent. I used to not like him but he’s been very kind since I’ve been here. So now I like him. I’d almost say we are friendly . . . but perhaps that’s too big a leap at this stage.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I see. Are you always this . . . uh . . .”

“Brutally honest?”

“I was going to say direct, but brutally honest works as well.”

“Yes. I am. And I know—it’s a character flaw.”

“Not at all. I love honest people.”

“Everyone says that . . . until I say something they don’t like. Then I’m a bitch.”

“Perhaps you haven’t realized it yet, Dr. Conridge,” Van Holtz said, that big grin still firmly in place, “but this is the one place in town where being a bitch is not only accepted but expected. So . . . it seems to me that you fit right in here.”

Dieter Van Holtz stood. “I’ll let you get back to your book. And I truly hope this isn’t the last we see of you, Dr. Conridge.”

“Not at all. There’s a charity holiday gala in December. I expect you to be there with checkbook in hand.”

“Of course.” And there went that smirk again. “But we both know that’s not what I meant.”

“Uh . . . we do?” But the strange man was already long gone.

“Genetics,” Irene muttered while opening her book. “Clearly the insanity flaw is in their genes.”

Van rubbed his forehead and tried to rein in his temper. It wasn’t easy when all he really wanted to do was pop one bitch lioness right in the mouth.

“So what are you saying?” he snarled at Melinda Löwe.

“I’m saying she can’t be trusted.”

“Melinda, she’s been living with a jackal since she was thirteen. She’s kept her secret all this time; do you really think Irene Conridge is suddenly going to snap and tell the world?”

“Friends are one thing. But she has no real stake in protecting us. And you know my feelings on jackals. They’re like the Africanwild dogs. I don’t really even count them as one of us.”

“That’s nice.”

“Don’t give me your bullshit, Van. Like you’re so above it all. You only took the woman ’cause you were hoping to fuck her.”

“I took her because I didn’t think it was right you wanted to kill her because the hyenas decided to have some fun with a full-human.”

Clarice Dupris glanced up from her cup of tea. “Why are you all looking at me?” she asked innocently.

“This is your fault,” Melinda accused. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Irene Conridge can’t be allowed to live. She knows too much and she has no reason to protect any of us.”

Nibbling on a piece of Scottish shortbread, Clarice said softly, “What if she were marked? As a mate?”

Once a shifter marked and mated with a full-human, the human was considered “one of us.” They were protected the same as all shifters, but they had to be ready to take on any challengers to their territory or to protect their pups or cubs.

Melinda frowned. “Who’d mark her?”

It took Van a minute to realize they were all staring at him. He grinned. “What? Is that a challenge, Clarice? You don’t think I would?”

“Uh . . . Van?” He waved at his sister to keep her quiet.

“Well?” he pushed.

Clarice shrugged rugged shoulders. “All I said was maybe someone could mark her. I didn’t say it had to be you.”

“Marking anyone is bullshit and you all know it.”

“I wouldn’t know if it was bullshit or not,” Melinda admitted. “It just seems like something you wolves like to do. Personally, I like keeping the males at a distance until I’m actually in the mood to breed.”

“We mock ours relentlessly,” Clarice added, “until they cry or turn on each other. It brings us joy.”

“But,” Melinda added, “if it keeps your precious full-human alive—”

“—and you don’t believe in marking anyway—”

“—then who could it hurt?”

They didn’t think he’d do it. And, if he believed even a modicum of the crap his parents tried to shove down his throat for the past twenty-seven years, he wouldn’t do it. But Van didn’t believe. If they wanted Irene Conridge marked, he’d mark her, all right. And then he’d walk away.

“Done.” He stood up. “Always nice to see you two,” he lied.

As soon as they stepped outside the tea shop, his sister latched on to his arm. “Have you lost your mind?”

He pried her fingers off. “Stop panicking. This is nothing. I bite her and send her away.”