“Hey, Mercy,” Samuel said, as Adam opened the front door.
I turned to him, and he gave me a kiss on the forehead.
“You be happy.” The odd phrase caught my attention, but there was nothing odd in the rest of what he said. “I’ve got the red-eye shift. Most likely I won’t see you when you get back.” He looked up at Adam, meeting his eyes in a male-to-male challenge that had Adam’s eyes narrowing. “Take care of her.” Then he pushed us out and closed the door before Adam could take offense at the order.
After a long moment, Adam laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he said, knowing the other wolf would hear him through the door. “Mercy takes care of herself; I just get to clean up the mess afterward.” If I hadn’t been watching his face, I wouldn’t have seen the twist on his lips as he spoke. As if he didn’t like what he was saying very much.
I felt suddenly self-conscious. I like who I am—but there are plenty of men who wouldn’t. I am a mechanic. Adam’s first wife had been all soft curves, and I am mostly muscle. Not very feminine, my mother liked to complain. And then there were those idiosyncrasies that were the aftermath of rape.
Adam held out his hand to me, and I put mine in his. He had gotten very good at inviting my touch. At not touching me first.
I looked at our clasped hands as we went down the porch stairs. I’d thought that I was getting better, that the involuntary flinching, the fear, was leaving. It occurred to me that maybe he was just getting better at working around my fears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, as we stopped beside his truck.
It was so new there was still a sticker on the rear-seat window. He’d replaced his SUV after one of his wolves had dented the fender defending me—followed by a separate incident when an ice elf (honking huge fae) who was chasing me dropped the front half of a building on it.
“Mercy—” He frowned at me. “You don’t owe me for the damned truck.”
His hand was still holding mine, and I had a moment to realize that our fickle mate bond had given him an insight into what I was thinking, before a vision dropped me to my knees.
IT WAS DARK, AND ADAM WAS AT HIS COMPUTER IN HIS home office. His eyes burned, his hands ached, and his back was stiff from so many hours of work.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No wife to protect from the world. It had been a long time since he’d loved her—it is dangerous to love someone who doesn’t love you in return. He’d been a soldier too long to put himself deliberately in danger without a good reason. She loved his status, his money, and his power. She’d have loved it better if it had belonged to someone who did as she told him.
He didn’t love her, but he’d loved taking care of her. Loved buying her little presents, loved the idea of her.
Losing her had been bad; losing his daughter was much, much worse. Jesse trailed noise and cheer everywhere she went—and her absence was . . . difficult. His wolf was restless. A creature of the moment, his wolf. There was no way to comfort it with the knowledge that he’d have Jesse back for the summer. Not that he derived much comfort from that either. So he tried to lose himself in work.
Someone knocked on the back door.
He pushed back the chair and had to pause. The wolf was angry that someone had breached his sanctuary. Not even his pack had been brave enough these past few days to approach him in his home.
By the time he stalked into the kitchen, he had it mostly under control. He jerked open the back door and expected to see one of his wolves. But it was Mercy.
She didn’t look cheerful—but then, she seldom did when she had to come over and talk to him. She was tough and independent and not at all happy to have him interfere in any way with that independence. It had been a long time since someone had bossed him around the way she did—and he liked it. More than a wolf who’d been Alpha for twenty years ought to like it.
She smelled of burnt car oil, jasmine from the shampoo she’d been using that month, and chocolate. Or maybe that last was the cookies on the plate she handed him.
“Here,” she said stiffly. And he realized it was shyness that pinched in the corner of her mouth. “Chocolate usually helps me regain my balance when life kicks me in the teeth.”
She didn’t wait for him to say anything, just turned around and walked back to her house.
He took the cookies back to the office with him. After a few minutes, he ate one. Chocolate, thick and dark, spread across his tongue, its bitterness alleviated by a sinful amount of brown sugar and vanilla. He’d forgotten to eat and hadn’t realized it.
But it wasn’t the chocolate or the food that made him feel better. It was Mercy’s kindness to someone she viewed as her enemy. And right at that moment, he realized something. She would never love him for what he could do for her.
He ate another cookie before getting up to make himself dinner.
ADAM SHUT DOWN THE BOND BETWEEN US UNTIL IT was nothing more than a gossamer thread.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against my ear. “So sorry. F—” He swallowed the obscenity before it left his lips. He pulled me closer, and I realized we were both sitting in the gravel driveway, huddled next to the truck. And the gravel was really cold on my bare skin.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Do you know what you showed me?” I asked. My voice was hoarse.
“I thought it was a flashback,” he answered. He’d seen me have them before.
“Not one of mine,” I told him. “One of yours.”
He stilled. “Was it bad?”
He’d been in Vietnam; he’d been a werewolf since before I was born—he’d probably seen a lot of bad stuff.
“It seemed like a private moment that I had no business seeing,” I told him truthfully. “But it wasn’t bad.”
I’d seen him the moment that I’d become something more than an assignment from the Marrok.
I remembered feeling stupid standing on his back porch with a plate of cookies for a man whose life had just gone down in the flames of a nasty divorce. He hadn’t said anything when he answered the door—so I’d assumed that he’d thought it stupid, too. I’d gone back home as fast as I could without running.
I had had no idea that it had helped. Nor that he saw me as tough and capable. Funny, I’d always thought I looked weak to the werewolves.
So what if I still flinched if he forgot and put a hand on my shoulder? Time would fix that. I was already a lot better: daily flashbacks to the rape were a thing of the past. We’d work through it. Adam was willing to make allowances for me.
And our bond did its rubber-band thing, which it did sometimes, and snapped back into place, giving him access to my thoughts as if my head were clear as glass.
“Whatever you need,” he said, his body suddenly still as the evening air. “Whatever I can do.”
I relaxed my shoulders, burying my nose against his collarbone, and after a second, the relaxation was genuine. “I love you,” I told him. “And we need to talk about me paying you for that truck.”
“I’m not—”
I cut off his words. I meant to put a finger against his lips or something tender like that. But I’d jerked my head up in reaction to his apology and slammed my forehead into his chin. Shutting him up much more effectively than I’d meant to as he bit his tongue.
He laughed as he bled down his shirt, and I babbled apologies. He let his head fall back against the truck door with a thump.
“Leave off, Mercy. It’ll close up quick enough on its own.”
I backed up until I was sitting beside him—half-laughing myself, because although it probably hurt quite a bit, he was right that his injury would heal in a few minutes. It was minor, and he was a werewolf.
“You’ll quit trying to pay for the SUV,” he told me.
“The SUV was my fault,” I informed him.
“You didn’t throw a wall on it,” he said. “I might have let you pay for the dent—”
“Don’t even try to lie to me,” I huffed indignantly, and he
laughed again.
“Fine. I wouldn’t have. But it’s a moot point anyway, because after the wall fell on it, fixing the dent was out of the question. And the ice elf’s lack of control was completely the vampire’s fault—”
I could have kept arguing with him—I usually like arguing with Adam. But there were things I liked better.
I leaned forward and kissed him.
He tasted of blood and Adam—and he didn’t seem to have any trouble following the switch from mild bickering to passion. After a while—I don’t know how long—Adam looked down at his bloodstained shirt and started laughing again. “I suppose we might as well go bowling after all,” he said, pulling me to my feet.
2
WE STOPPED AT A STEAK HOUSE FOR DINNER FIRST.
He’d left the bloodstained coat and formal shirt in the car and snagged a dark blue T-shirt from a bag of miscellaneous clothes in the backseat. He’d asked me if he looked odd wearing a T-shirt with tuxedo pants. He couldn’t see the way the shirt clung to the muscles of his shoulders and back. I reassured him, truthfully—and with a straight face—that no one would care.
It was Friday night, and business was brisk. Happily, the service was fast.
After the waitress took our orders, Adam said, a little too casually, “So what did you see in your vision?”
“Nothing embarrassing,” I told him. “Just one time when I brought cookies over to you.”
His eyes brightened. “I see,” he said, and his shoulders relaxed a bit, even if his cheeks reddened. “I was thinking about that.”
“We okay?” I asked him. “I’m sorry I intruded.”
He shook his head. “No apologies necessary. You’re welcome to whatever you pick up.”
“So,” I said casually, “your first time was under the bleachers, huh?”
He jerked his head up.
“Gotcha. Warren told me.”
He smiled. “Cold and wet and miserable.”
The waitress plunked our food down in front of us and hurried on her way. Adam fed me bites of his rare filet mignon, and I fed him some of my salmon. Food was good, company better, and if I had been a cat, I’d have purred.
“You look happy.” He took a sip of his coffee and stretched out a leg so his foot was against mine.
“You make me happy,” I told him.
“You could be happy all the time,” he said, eating the last bite of baked potato, “and move in with me.”
To wake up next to him every morning . . . but . . . “Nope. I’ve caused you enough trouble,” I told him. “The pack and I need to come to . . . détente before I’m moving in. Your home is the den, the heart of the pack. They need a place where they feel safe.”
“They can adjust.”
“They’re adjusting as fast as they can,” I told him. “First there was Warren—did you hear that after you let him in, several other packs have allowed gay wolves to join, too? And now there’s me. A coyote in a werewolf pack—you have to admit that’s quite a lot of change for one pack to take.”
“Next thing you know,” he said, “women will have the vote or a black man will become president.” He looked serious, but there was humor in his voice.
“See?” I pointed my fork at him. “They’re all stuck in the eighteen hundreds, and you’re expecting them to change. Samuel likes to say that most werewolves have all the change they can deal with the first time they become wolf. Other kinds of change are tough to force on them.”
“Peter and Warren are the only ones who’ve been around since the eighteen hundreds,” Adam told me. “Most of them are younger than I am.”
The waitress came and blinked a little as Adam ordered three desserts—werewolves take a lot of food to keep themselves fueled up. I shook my head when she looked my way.
When she left, I took up the conversation from where I’d left off. “It won’t hurt us to wait a few months until things settle down.”
If he hadn’t basically agreed with me, I’d have been sleeping in his house already instead of making do with dates. He understood as well as I did that pulling me into his pack had caused a lot of resentment. Maybe if it had been a healthy, well-adjusted pack beforehand, things wouldn’t have gotten so tense.
A few years ago, some of his pack had started harassing me—a coyote living next door. Werewolves, like their natural brethren, are territorial, and they don’t share their hunting ground easily with other predators. So to put a stop to it, Adam declared me his mate. I hadn’t known at the time why the harassment abruptly stopped—and Adam hadn’t been in a hurry to tell me. But pack magic demanded that the declaration be answered, and Adam bore the cost when it wasn’t. It left him weaker, crabbier, and less able to help his pack stay calm, cool, and collected. By bringing me in as a member of his pack at virtually the same time our mating bond connected, Adam hadn’t given his people a chance to get their feet underneath them before throwing them back onto uncertain ground.
“One more month,” he said finally. “And then they—and Samuel, too—will just have to get used to it.” His eyes, the color of bitter dark chocolate, were serious as he leaned forward. “And you will marry me.”
I smiled, showing my teeth. “Don’t you mean, ‘Will you marry me?’ ”
I meant it to be funny, but his eyes brightened until little gold flecks were swimming in the darkness. “You had your chance to run, coyote. It’s too late now.” He smiled. “Your mother is happy that she’ll be able to use some of the stuff from your sister’s wedding that wasn’t.”
Panic swelled my heart. “You didn’t talk to her about this, did you?” I had visions of a church filled with people and white satin everywhere. And doves. My mother had had doves at her wedding. My sister had eloped to get away from her. My mother is a steamroller, and she doesn’t listen very well . . . to anyone.
The wolf left his eyes, and he grinned. “You’re okay with marrying a werewolf who has a teenage daughter and a pack that’s falling apart—and your mother panics you?”
“You’ve met my mother,” I said. “She ought to panic you, too.”
He laughed.
“You just weren’t around her long enough.” It was only fair that I warn him.
WE WERE LUCKY AND GOT OUR SCORING TABLE TO ourselves, as the women who had the lane to our left were packing up when we got back from choosing our bowling balls from the available stack. Mine was bright green with gold swirls. Adam’s was black.
“You have no imagination,” I told him smugly. “It wouldn’t hurt if you found a pink ball to bowl with.”
“All the pink balls have kid-sized holes in them,” he told me. “The black balls are the heaviest.”
I opened my mouth, but he shut me up with a kiss. “Not here,” he said. “Look next to us.”
We were being observed by a boy of about five and a toddler in a frilly pink dress.
I raised my nose in the air. “As if I were going to joke about your ball. How juvenile.”
He grinned at me. “I thought you’d feel that way.”
I sat down and messed with player names on the interface on the scoring table until I was satisfied.
“Found On Road Dead,” he said dryly, looking over my shoulder.
“I thought I’d use our cars as names. You drive a Ford now. F-O-R-D.”
“Very Woo-hoo?”
“Not a lot of cool words start with a ‘W,’ ” I admitted.
He leaned over my shoulder and changed it to “Vintage Wabbit,” then into my ear, he said, “Very wicked. Mine.”
“I can live with that.” His warm breath on my ear felt very wicked, all right.
Until Adam, I’d always felt like his black bowling ball—boring but useful. I’m nothing special in the looks department, once you get past the slightly exotic coloring my Blackfoot father gave me. And Adam . . . Heads turn when Adam walks by. Even in the bowling alley, he was attracting attention.
“Go throw your boring black ball,” I told him sternly. “Flirting with t
he scorekeeper won’t help you because the computers keep score now.”
“As if I needed help,” he smirked, walking backward a few steps before he turned around to pay attention to the poor, helpless bowling pins.
He bowled with the deadly earnestness and decisive style with which he did everything else. Controlled power, that was Adam.
But I started noticing something other than admiration in the gazes of the people who were beginning to look at us. At Adam. He wasn’t really a celebrity; he tried to stay out of the news. But Adam was one of the wolves who was out to the public—a sober, successful businessman whose security company protected American nuclear technology from foreign hands: a good guy who happened to be a werewolf. All fine and dandy when they read about it in the newspapers, I guess. But it was different to see a werewolf at their bowling alley.
They are afraid of him.
The thought was so strong it felt as if someone were whispering into my ear, bringing with it worry.
Look at them. I saw the men bristling over their women, the mothers hastily gathering their children to them. In a moment, there would be a mass exodus—and that was assuming that some of the young men I saw coming to their feet about four lanes down didn’t do something stupid.
He hasn’t noticed yet.
Adam gave me a sly, pleased grin at his strike as he walked back—a strike more remarkable because there were no shattered pins, no broken equipment. Too much power can be as great a disadvantage as not enough.
Look beside you.
I took up my green ball and glanced at the people next to us. Like Adam, they were too involved in their game to notice the growing murmuring. The young boy was crawling under the chairs, and his parents were bickering over something on the score-board. Their too-cute toddler—with her pink dress and little pink lions in the two-inch ponytails that stuck out from the back of her head—had climbed up on the bowling platform and was playing with the ball return blowers designed to dry sweaty palms. She wiggled her little hands over the cool air and laughed.
Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson: Hopcross Jilly Page 119