Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

the game, too.
    â€œIs he really the Alpha?” asked the teenage girl behind the counter.
    â€œYep,” I said through clenched lips.
    â€œWow.”
    â€œYep.”
    I left the bowling alley and waited for him by the side of his shiny new truck, which was locked. The temperature had dropped by twenty degrees as soon as the sun went down, and it was cold enough to make me, in my heels and dress, uncomfortable. Or it would have been if my temper hadn’t kept me nice and warm.
    I stood by the passenger door, and he didn’t see me at first. I saw him lift his head and sniff the air. I leaned my hip against the side of the truck, and the movement caught his attention. He kept his eyes on me as he walked from the building to the truck.
    He’d thought you’d deliberately endanger a child to make him look good. He doesn’t understand that you’d never do such a thing. She wouldn’t have gotten hurt; the ball would have rolled past her harmlessly. He owes you an apology.
    I didn’t say anything to him. I could hardly tell him that the little voices made me do it, could I?
    His eyes narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut, too. He popped the locks and let me get myself in the truck. I paid attention to the buckle, then settled back in the seat and closed my eyes. My hands clenched in my lap, then loosened as a familiar shape inserted itself and my hands closed on the old wood and silver of the fae-made walking stick.
    I’d gotten so used to its showing up unexpectedly, I wasn’t even surprised, though this was the first time I’d actually felt it appear where it hadn’t been. I was more preoccupied with the disaster of our date.
    With the walking stick in my hands, it felt as if my head cleared at last. Abruptly I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just tired and I wanted to go home.
    â€œMercy.”
    Adam was angry enough for the both of us: I could hear the grinding of his teeth. He thought I would throw a bowling ball at a little girl.
    I couldn’t blame him for his anger. I moved the walking stick until the base was on the floor, then rubbed my thumb on the silver head. There was nothing I could say to defend myself—I didn’t want to defend myself. I’d been recklessly stupid. What if Adam had been slower? I felt sick.
    â€œI don’t understand women,” he bit out, starting the car up and gunning the gas a little harder than necessary.
    I gripped the fairy stick with all my might and kept my eyes closed all the way home. My stomach hurt. He was right to be angry, right to be upset.
    I had the desperate feeling something was wrong, wrong, wrong. I couldn’t talk to him because I was afraid I’d make everything worse. I needed to understand why I’d done what I’d done before I could make him understand.
    We pulled into my driveway in silence. Samuel’s car was gone, so he must have headed into work earlier than he meant to. I needed to talk to him because I had a very nasty suspicion about tonight. I couldn’t talk to Adam—because it would sound like I was trying to find excuses for myself. I needed Samuel, and he wasn’t here.
    I released my seat belt and unlocked my door—Adam’s arm shot in front of me and held the door closed.
    â€œWe need to talk,” he said, and this time he didn’t sound angry.
    But he was too close. I couldn’t breathe with him this close. And right then, when I could least afford it, I had another panic attack.
    With a desperate sound I couldn’t help, I jerked my feet to the seat and propelled myself up and over the front seat and into the back. The back door was locked, too, but even as I started to struggle with the latch, Adam popped the lock, and I was free.
    I stumbled back away from the truck, shaking and sweating in the night air, the fae stick in one hand like a cudgel or a sword that could protect me from . . . being stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Damn Tim and all that he’d done for leaving me stupidly shaking while I stood perfectly safely in the middle of my own stupid driveway.
    I wanted to be myself again instead of this stranger who was afraid of being touched—and who had little voices in her head that made her throw bowling balls at children.
    â€œMercy,” Adam said. He’d gotten out of the truck and come around the back of it. His voice was gentle, and the sound of it . . . Abruptly I could feel his sorrow and