He considered his words.
“Nah,” he said.
He’d tried to make it playful, a contrast to what she was feeling. But his monsters, roused by his mate’s condition, lent their darkness, so the casual word came out rich with…something not playful.
He waited and tried again, and this time he sounded more normal. “You pushed this off until the enemy was gone. You’d have held out until you did what you had to do.”
She shook her head fiercely. And for a moment he hoped she’d argue with him—arguing was sometimes useful in her battle with her panic attacks. But when she spoke, it was to direct the conversation away from herself.
“Ymir is a problem,” she said raggedly, “if he can take our wolves.”
She was absolutely right.
“Sherwood is on his way over,” Adam told her. “I don’t know if he’ll have suggestions, but he’s our best bet.”
Mercy tried to say something, but it didn’t come out. Adam fought back the urge to look at her, because she preferred not to be stared at. This was a bad attack. He’d expected her to be mostly done with it by the time he’d been able to come up.
If he’d only gotten to Tim sooner—
He wound that thought up tight and shoved it down where it belonged before one of his beasts got even more stirred up. The important thing was not yesterday—the important thing was tomorrow.
Mercy thumped the back of her head against the wall. “Six weeks.” She growled. “Six weeks without a panic attack. Anxiety attack. Stupid attack. Whatever. Not since Stefan—”
Her voice broke off and she quit breathing.
Every muscle in Adam’s body locked up with the need to help her. There was nothing he could do—not unless he was willing to use the pack bonds to force her recovery. In a life-or-death circumstance, he might do something like that. But she wasn’t going to die today.
And he wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability like that.
After a few seconds, she caught a breath. Then another. She scooted over an inch and leaned against him, resting her forehead on his arm.
“Mary Jo?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“She’s pretty scared,” he admitted. “She’s going home with Honey and Gary. The women don’t seem to fret Gary as much as the men do.”
Mercy gave a hiccup of laughter. “No surprise there.”
But Adam didn’t think it was like that. He’d gotten the impression that Gary didn’t care about the sex of the people he took to his bed—or flirted with. But women felt safer. Or maybe it was just Honey and Mary Jo.
Mary Jo. That reminded him he had a few questions.
“Warren was trying to get permission from Mary Jo to call Renny and get him over there, too. Something happened between them?”
“He proposed to her, so she broke up with him,” she told him.
“That makes sense,” he told her, because it didn’t.
She huffed a laugh. “He’s human, and being her boyfriend has already gotten him hurt.”
Oh, that. Yes. Adam understood that in a visceral way.
“She really loves him, then,” Adam said.
Mercy nodded. “She really does.” Her voice was sad.
He was quiet for a while, wondering, as he often did, whether joining his pack had put Mercy in more danger or less. He used to think he knew the answer, because his pack had been quiet before he’d decided to court Mercy. But lately he’d found himself wondering if all the stuff they’d been hit with the last few years hadn’t been going to happen anyway. Maybe if Mercy’s life and his had not merged, none of them would have survived this long—they were stronger together.
“I didn’t even know what to tell her,” Mercy said. “Except that she should talk to you.”
He couldn’t help but give her a wry laugh. “Thanks for that.”
“He’s human,” Mercy said. “He works in a dangerous job—and the Tri-Cities are not getting any more safe for police work. He could pull the wrong car over tomorrow—or trip coming down stairs.”
Neither of them mentioned Changing Renny. His chances of survival weren’t high, and being a werewolf came with its own set of worries. The average life expectancy of a werewolf who survived the initial Change was now around eight years. The drop was due to the increased pressure on the Marrok to take care of troublemakers before they drew the attention of the human authorities. Being out to the humans had been unavoidable, given modern technology, but it hadn’t made their lives easier.
“Honey might be the best person for her to talk to,” Adam said. “She’s seen more than I have.”
“What do you think she’ll tell Mary Jo?” Mercy asked. Her body was softening against him, and the tremors were subsiding.
“To do what will leave her with the fewest regrets,” Adam said. “But to have a clear eye on just what that means. And you are forgetting one part of this.”
She looked up at him and he ran a gentle finger along the scar on her cheek, the one that looked a little like war paint. As much as he regretted the wound, he loved that scar. It was a reminder to him, and to the pack, that his mate could hold her own.
“What am I forgetting?” she asked.
He couldn’t tell if she was okay with his touch yet or not, so he let his hand fall away.
“Renny,” he said. “If that man lets Mary Jo walk away again, he doesn’t deserve her.”
That got him a watery smile, and she hummed a few bars of a song. Her pitch was usually spot-on, but tonight wasn’t “usually,” so it took him a moment to recognize the Beatles’ “Revolution.”
“Yeah,” he said. “A determined person can change the world.”
She leaned away from him to drag up the edge of the blanket and used it to wipe her face.
“Good thing snot washes out,” she said, looking at the wet spot her face had left on the fabric.
“Can I hug you yet?” Adam asked, his voice sounding wistful even to himself.
In answer, she crawled into his lap, snotty blanket and all. What was a little snot compared to the overwhelming relief of her? He wrapped his arms around her, being careful how much of his strength he used.
She tucked her face under his jaw, wiggling until she was where she wanted to be. His body was honed to maximize his ability to protect her and his pack; he knew it didn’t have much more give than a cement bench. Her body wasn’t exactly squishable, either, for that matter. But she always seemed to find a way to fit against him.
With her safe in his arms, his beasts—the wolf and the other monster—gave him some peace. Sometimes he wished that his world could be only this: he and Mercy curled together in the dark.
But he knew he wouldn’t last long like that. Peace was, for him, a momentary thing that rapidly turned into boredom. Mercy rubbed her cheek on his neck and he couldn’t help but smile. She was worse than he was. Always up and doing something was his Mercy.
He waited while her breathing slowed. For the first few minutes of sleep, her breath stuttered like a baby’s after a crying jag. He heard the quiet sounds as Sherwood arrived, followed shortly by Darryl and Auriele. He ignored them for the moment. When he was sure Mercy was asleep, he rose to his feet, the wolf’s strength making his awkward position on the floor trivial. He wasn’t often grateful to be a werewolf.
Mercy was heavier than his first wife had been. Christy had worked out, but not the way Mercy did. Especially lately. Asleep, her face appeared gaunter than it had a year ago. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was driving them all too hard. There was a fine line between peak performance and broken.
Adam didn’t want to break his mate. He wanted to give her everything he knew, every bit of training to help her survive, and hope it would be enough.