Page 40 of Winter Lost

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.

The best way to save a drowning man, his father had liked to say, was to teach him to swim before he fell in the river—so he could keep himself safe instead of depending upon you. His dad had been big on independence. He would have adored Mercy.

Adam set her on their bed and stripped off her clothes. She wasn’t usually a heavy sleeper, but a bad panic attack damn near put her into a coma. She also slept cold.

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