River Marked (Mercy Thompson #6)(18)
Author: Patricia Briggs

If he’d stopped there, I wouldn’t have gotten mad. Maybe I’d even have conceded that he’d been right, and I shouldn’t have worried. But he didn’t leave it alone–because Adam might be gorgeous and smart, but he wasn’t perfect.

"I suppose I could have driven myself crazy–" he bit out because our peculiar bond apparently wasn’t doing its thing. He didn’t know that I agreed with him. That he’d won. "Or more to the point," he said, "I could have let you drive both of us crazy for the past few days speculating what nefarious plot Uncle Mike has hatched up–Uncle Mike, who has proved himself to be, at least, a valuable ally if you don’t consider him to be a friend. Or I could keep it to myself until your curiosity got the best of you and you asked so we could at least enjoy a couple days of our honeymoon before we started worrying about what the fu–" He was breathing harder now and had almost let that four-letter word all the way out.

I leaned forward, kissed the white line on his cheek that came out like war paint whenever he clenched his jaw, and said lightly, "All you ever had to do was tell me you had it under control, dear." I batted my eyes demurely. "I’m just the wife. I don’t have to strain my poor weak brain worrying about the fae because you are here to protect me."

Yep, I was ticked, too. He was patronizing me.

I could still, however, admit when he was right: the fae certainly weren’t the ones he had to worry about.

He narrowed his eyes at me. "That is not what I said. Don’t put words in my mouth."

I reached around him, popped the door of the trailer open, and changed into a coyote before he finished his sentence–and I was off and running.

It would take a while before he could follow because werewolves take a lot longer to change. I supposed he could have chased after me in human form–but on two feet he’d never catch me, werewolf or not. Besides that, he was naked. The campground was rendered mostly private by topography and greenery, but it wasn’t completely private. Pack magic wouldn’t do anything to hide a naked man running across the campground.

I took advantage of him and left before he could continue the argument.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE DOING, MARRYING an Alpha werewolf?" my mother had said a few months ago, as I drove us to yet another wedding-dress outlet in Portland. Who knew there were so many white dresses? Who knew there were so many horrible white dresses? The oddest thing was that it seemed like the worse the dress, the more expensive it was.

"Yes, Mom," I said, narrowly avoiding a brownish ’77 LTD being driven by a grandmother who could barely see over the dash. "I’ve known Adam for a long time. I know just what I’m getting myself into."

As if I hadn’t said anything, my mother said, "Any kind of alpha takes some serious managing. Werewolves are controlling bastards–and Alpha werewolves are worse than that. If you don’t watch it, you find that you are doing exactly what they tell you to."

There was an interesting snap in her voice, and I wondered how often Bran had gotten her to do what he wanted her to. Not as often as he wanted, I’d bet, but evidently more than she was happy about.

"I know how to take care of myself." I wasn’t worried. Adam was dominant–that was certainly true. But I’d more than proved to myself that I could hold my own against him if I needed to.

"I know you do," Mom said with satisfaction. "But remember, confrontations aren’t productive with an Alpha. You’ll just lose–or worse, make him lose control."

"He won’t hurt me, Mom."

"Of course not," she said. "But a man like Adam, if he loses control, he’ll feel terrible. He’ll worry that he might have hurt you. Making him feel horrible isn’t what you want." She paused, considered what she said, then modified it. "Unless it is useful for him to feel horrible, of course. Mostly, though, I’ve found that isn’t productive. Men who are miserable can be unpredictable."

I wondered if my stepfather knew how lucky he was that she felt it was in her best interests that he was happy instead of miserable. Probably he did; he was a smart man.

"I am the queen of hit-and-run," I told her. "All the satisfaction, none of the danger."

"Good," she said. "Just make sure he doesn’t turn you into the good little wife. You’d manage it for a while–you were the `good little daughter’ in my house from the time you moved in until you went to college."

There was a little edge to her voice, as if I’d hurt her–which hadn’t been my intention at all. When I’d left Bran’s pack to live with my mother and stepfather, I’d been sixteen, and they’d already had a family without me. No. They’d had the perfect family without me. I hadn’t wanted to disturb them any more than I could help.

"But if you try that in a marriage," she continued, "the marriage will self-destruct eventually, and there will be casualties everywhere you look."

"Adam doesn’t want a good little wife," I told her.

"Of course not," she said. But she didn’t know Adam that well, and I figured she was just humoring me, until she kept going. "But he was taught how to be a husband when it was assumed that his wife would be a combination cook/housekeeper/mother who would need him to provide and protect her. He knows in his head and his heart that you are an equal, but his instincts were instilled a long time ago. You are going to have to help him with that and be patient with him."

My mother would not be nearly as terrifying if she weren’t right so often.

SO INSTEAD OF STICKING AROUND TO FIGHT WITH Adam, I ran to let us both cool off, and to let the hurt of his patronizing remarks ease so I could think. I can’t be patient when I’m mad–unless I’m waiting to get back at someone, and I wasn’t that mad. Not yet.

I ran the first mile or so as fast as I could, then dropped down to a dog-trot. I couldn’t let him treat me like his first wife. I couldn’t live surrounded by cotton wool.

But he knew that.

I trusted him. What he’d kept from me hadn’t been life threatening. He was right. The fae would not offend the Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack. One werewolf was a tough creature–but the real power of the werewolves lay in their packs. I could understand him wanting to make sure our honeymoon was worry-free.

Okay. Okay.

So at what point had our discussion turned into an argument that left us both angry? And left me with an ache in my chest that felt as if he’d punched me instead of snapped at me. He hadn’t even worked up to a good rage, and I felt miserable.

A rabbit bolted right out in front of me. I hadn’t really intended on hunting, but if the stupid things want to present themselves for dinner … With a fresh turn of speed, I gave chase.