Smoke Bitten (Mercy Thompson, #12)(71)

I was shaking with rage when I finished saying the words I had sent inside our bond with the pearl. How dare he? How dare he try to kill himself?

He’d lowered the gun at some point during my speech. There was an odd expression on his face.

“Bastard,” I said again, though I had intended to stop after I told him the words I’d sealed into that pearl.

But the single word didn’t provide any relief for what I felt. I stomped my foot like a two-year-old. My eyes burned and tears formed . . . tears of something huge, bigger than grief, bigger than rage, and they burned down my face.

“Go talk to Bran, you said.” I was enraged at the thought. He’d given me words like a pat on the head—something to make him feel as though he weren’t leaving me alone. “Fuck that. You just try to leave me, you bastard, see how far that gets you—” I might have devolved into incoherence after that.

Adam put the gun slowly down on the counter. He tried to uncock it, but his oversized hands equipped with oversized claws apparently weren’t up to that, so he pointed the muzzle away from us both. I realized (and this didn’t lessen my anger one iota) that if I’d listened to him and replaced the gun in the safe with a 1911 instead of the Redhawk, he wouldn’t have been able to even try to kill himself with it because it would have been too small.

The gun safely dealt with (as safely as a loaded and cocked gun could be dealt with, anyway), Adam started walking toward me. He did it slowly, cautiously, as if he were afraid of me.

Or more probably, under the circumstances, because he was worried that his unusual form might scare me—or revolt me as it evidently did him.

Slowly he wrapped those too-long arms around me and hauled me to him, lifting me so my face could press against his neck. I was still yelling at him.

“Shhhh,” he said. “Sorry. You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“I’ll monster you,” I growled.

“Of course you will,” he soothed. But there was something in his voice.

I was so mad I wouldn’t have been surprised if I gave him steam burns. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Maybe—” he began, and then choked. His arms jerked convulsively.

He set me down on my own feet abruptly. Took a step back and then dropped to the concrete on his hands and knees. He didn’t make any noise as he transformed from monster to human, but it was so fast it must have hurt. Under other circumstances, the popping and crunching sounds of bones doing something that bones aren’t really designed to do might have made me feel sorry for him. Made me worry for him. But I was still too . . . too something.

He wasn’t dying—anything else he did was his own problem.

I stalked to the gun, uncocked it, and put it back in the safe. I closed the safe door and stalked back past him and into the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and grabbed a washcloth to wipe my eyes and stopped when I saw myself in the mirror.

Holy cow.

My usually brown skin was blanched until it looked green. The two black eyes that had been oncoming after the accident were definitely bruised, and my nose was swollen with a trickle of blood dried on my upper lip. There was another bruise along the cheek next to the white scar that usually looked sort of like war paint. But now that I looked like an extra from The Walking Dead, it just completed the effect.

“I see your monster,” I muttered, turning on the water. “And raise you another one.” I leaned closer to the mirror. “Brainssss.”

As I held the washcloth under the flow, I tipped my chin to see if I looked better from another angle. Huh. There was a bruise and a friction burn on my neck where the seat belt caught me before it let me go too soon. I pulled back my shirt and . . . wowza.

I’d been in worse wrecks—and I’d been hurt worse in them. But I didn’t remember looking worse after a collision. No wonder Adam had been on edge. Well, that and apparently Elizaveta had gotten him with a curse as she died.

I didn’t know what to do about that curse. I’d bought us some more time, I thought. Bran might have an idea or two . . . but I was a little leery of contacting him after Adam’s over-the-top reaction. And Bran was weird about witchcraft. Maybe I’d call Charles; Charles had his own sort of magic.

I put the washcloth against my eyelids—very careful of my nose—and waited for a while. When I pulled the washcloth away, my eyes were still red like I’d been wearing bad contacts for a week, but they felt better. I wiped the blood off my lip.

I was tired of all the emotion. I didn’t want to open the door. I wanted to magically wake up tomorrow with the relationship between Adam and me reset to a normal place. My heart hurt.

I tried to think of a logical path to get home and in bed. First step: get in the car. But Adam, assuming he was changing back to his human form, which was what it had looked like, would be naked.

Tad had clothes here that might fit Adam, but werewolves could be funny about wearing someone else’s clothing—especially if that someone wasn’t pack. On a good day, maybe it would have worked. This day had been a whole bad year all by itself.

Adam’s SUV would have a change of clothes. Probably not footwear, but he had made his own bed and he could lie in it.

Second step: drive home and . . .

I had to put the washcloth on my eyes again. My hands were still shaking. If he had pulled that trigger . . . I could have been alone again.