River Marked (Mercy Thompson #6)(14)

"Uhm," I said, rolling over so I could lick a bead of sweat off his chest. He tasted like Adam. Who needed champagne? "You better not take off your ring without a really good reason," I told him, letting my inner coyote out where he could see her. Maybe he needed to know his possessiveness was returned, in spades. "And if your ex-wife or any moderately attractive woman from thirteen to seventy is in the area, you should be aware that there is no reason good enough for you to take off your ring."

He laughed, and I rolled again, until I was all the way on top of him.

I hadn't gotten it right yet, hadn't worked out what was bothering him. Our bond might be talking to him, but it wasn't letting me know anything that was going on behind his eyes-- which had gone dark again. That's the problem with magic. You start counting on it, and it disappears out from under your feet and leaves you floundering worse than if you'd never had it in the first place. So all I could go on was what most other women had to use to interpret their mates' moods.

I had known Adam for more than ten years--I'd known his ex-wife, Christy, too. Maybe his problem was rooted in his first marriage. She'd been big on personal freedom--as long as it was her freedom. She'd been jealous of the pack; jealous, also, I thought, of Jesse, their daughter. She didn't love him, but she had wanted to be the center of his world and would tolerate nothing else.

Maybe he felt that he was trying to do that to me. Maybe we both needed to lighten up the atmosphere a bit, give ourselves time to deal with all the changes.

I nipped his ear lightly. "If it were socially acceptable to tattoo my name across your forehead, I'd do it."

"I only see my forehead when I look in a mirror," he said. "I see my hand a lot more often."

"It wouldn't be for you," I told him. "You know who you belong to. It's for all the other women. Only fair to warn them when the wrong word might get them hurt. This coyote has fangs."

His chest vibrated under me, the laugh not making it all the way out yet. He relaxed subtly.

"I thought that if you're feeling primitive about this, it is only fair to let you know that I'm feeling pretty primitive, too," I informed him lightly.

Then I rolled off him and over the edge of the bed to drop down on the floor. I kicked my swimming suit, now cold and clammy, aside. "However, you ought to know that I can't work at the shop with my rings on unless I want to be known as Nine-Fingered Mercy. And"--I put my fingers on the pawprint just beneath my navel --"having gotten all the tattoos I ever intend to, I won't tattoo your name on my forehead or anything like that."

He jumped out of bed and strode to his suitcase. He unzipped the outer pocket and pulled out a flat box, which he handed to me.

I opened it to find a thick gold chain with a battered military dog tag on it. Hauptman, it read, Adam Alexander. The last time I'd seen it, it had been one of a pair on the same steel chain lying on Adam's chest of drawers.

"That's to put your rings on when you're at work," he said, taking the chain from me and putting it around my neck. As he fastened the chain, he kissed the back of my neck. He stayed there for a moment, his fingers tight on the necklace.

He'd given me one of his dog tags. I was never a soldier, but I'm a historian. I know why they started using a pair of dog tags. When a man died, and his buddies couldn't get the body out, they'd leave one tag with the body so anyone who found it could identify him. The other would be used to report his death.

That dog tag meant more to him than the ring did--and so it meant more to me, too. I noticed that the chain looked to be tough enough that I could wear it when running as a coyote, too.

"I need to go for a run," he told me, taking a full step back and slapping me lightly on my naked rump. His fingers lingered a little, testing the faint buckshot scars left from when I'd gotten a bit too close to a gun-happy rancher. "You want to come with?"

"Long run or short run?" I asked warily. Wolves love to run, but even most of them don't love to run the way Adam does.

He pulled on underwear and running shorts, socks and shoes as he considered my question. "Long run," he said, sounding a little surprised. "I'm a little wound up about something ..." He let his voice trail off and gave me a small, almost shy, grin. "Wolf instincts are good, but sometimes it's hard to figure out what's touching them off. Running helps connect the frontal lobe with the hindbrain."

"That helps?" I asked with sudden eagerness. It really irked me when I knew something and had no idea where it came from.

He laughed. "Sometimes. Sometimes I just get tired enough not to care. You staying here?"

"I am feeling extremely mellow," I told him. He'd run things off better if I wasn't with him. "I'll stay here. But you better put a shirt on, or your gorgeous self will cause an accident if you go running by the road, and someone sees you." He smiled at that; I think he thought I was joking. "I'll take a shower and read until you get back. By then we might think about food, making some or hunting some down."

He hesitated.

"Adam," I said, "we are out in the middle of nowhere. No one who hates me knows where we are unless you borrowed this rig from Marsilia. Go run. I'll be here for you when you get back--that's a promise."

He gave me one of his assessing looks, then left, closing the trailer door gently behind him. THE SHOWER IN THE TRAILER WASN'T HORRIBLE. I'D expected something only pygmies would be able to use, but it wasn't bad. I had no intention of using it, though, not with the camp showers available.