Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(34)

“How about assigning some of the single wolves to help keep watch over the families?” I suggested.

“I’ll get that done,” said Darryl.

“Okay,” said Adam, checking his watch. “If you leave now, Auriele won’t be late for work.”

They left and shut the door behind them. I turned around on the desk until I was facing Adam. I took a moment and just looked at him, seeing the stress of whatever was bothering him, the cost of the sleepless nights, and the toll that came with being the Alpha of the pack. I’d been toying with an idea that might help him, and looking at his careworn face gave me the hit of courage I needed.

I slid off the desk on Adam’s side and grabbed his hand. He grabbed my hand in return—just a little tighter than he normally would have. I leaned back and hauled him out of his chair—he didn’t resist, so I didn’t have to pull too hard.

“Come on,” I said grimly.

“Come where?” he asked.

“I have something you need to see.” I kept his hand in mine as I went back upstairs, ignoring the sounds of lingering pack members from the kitchen and living room.

“What is it?” Adam asked me.

I shook my head. “Wait.”

I took him into our bedroom and closed the door, letting go of his hand as I did so. I leaned an ear against the door.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He moved farther into the room, rubbing his neck tiredly.

“Making sure that there isn’t anyone to overhear,” I whispered.

He gave me a frown. “There isn’t anyone upstairs, Mercy. You and I can both tell that. What is this all about?”

I turned back to him. “For what I’m going to reveal to you,” I said seriously, “I want to be absolutely sure that we are alone.”

He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. He’d been stressed and exhausted before all hell had broken loose yesterday. Something needed to give before the invading werewolf pack was the least of our worries.

I pulled down the roller shades over the windows, explaining, “I don’t want my stalker to see or hear anything, either.”

“It’s daytime,” he said.

“I don’t trust daytime to stop Wulfe,” I said, half-seriously. “And I don’t want him to see this.”

He made a growling noise. “Mercy—”

I pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. Unhooking my bra, I shrugged it off, too.

Adam went silent.

“I told you I had something to show you,” I murmured in what I hoped was a sexy purr.

I was not sexually brave—had not been even before my assault a while back. Without Adam, it was not unimaginable that I would never have opened up enough after that to even take a lover, let alone a mate. But resisting Adam was never in my cards—this morning, I hoped he felt the same way.

He didn’t say anything, nor could I read the expression on his face. Maybe he was suppressing what he felt—or maybe with the shades drawn to darken the room and his head bent to put his eyes even deeper into the shadows, I just couldn’t see him well enough to interpret his expression.

My heart was in my mouth and I was too . . . “frightened” was not quite the right word, but it was fear that kept my breathing shallow. Fear of rejection. Fear that whatever had him all but strangling our mating bond would stop him from taking up my invitation—and what that would mean about our relationship going forward from this moment. So maybe “frightened” was exactly the right word.

Without a reaction from him, I had two choices.

First, I could grab my clothes and tell him I had to go to work—and it wouldn’t be a lie even though I had texted Tad during the meeting that I would not be in today until after lunch (along with a warning to watch his back because there were some interesting things happening).

My business didn’t need me to go into work this morning, but I would need a place to lick my wounds and the garage would do. If I lost my nerve here, I had a place to run.

My second choice was to keep braving on—and trust Adam not to leave me hanging out on a limb.

My fingers numb with terror, I unzipped my jeans. I didn’t say anything, because I was afraid that my voice would tell him that it wasn’t desire I was feeling—though while hauling him up the stairs my skin had been hot with anticipation.

I was risking my marriage.

Men couldn’t fake desire the way a woman could. Not that I could, and certainly no woman with a werewolf for a lover could fake it for long. But a man’s desire was obvious and unmistakable.

There were a dozen reasons floating around in my head, in my heart, for why Adam might not be interested. There were werewolves invading our territory. There was whatever had him putting up barriers between us. There was the fact that he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in however long. It was daytime and he should be getting ready for work.

And if he rejected me—however gently he did it—I would never find the courage to open up like this to him again.

There were tears gathering in my eyes at the thought of losing us, losing what we were. But I felt that it would say something equally bad about our relationship if I didn’t take this risk. So I tipped my head down and blinked hard as I slid my jeans and—the hell with it—switched my grip so my panties slid off my hips at the same time.