Patricia Briggs - Silver Borne

The miniature conqueror squealed as her father grabbed her up and her mother, little boy in tow behind her, babbled out thanks.

And you are the villain of the piece. Poor Mercy.

Of course I was the bad guy; I’d nearly smooshed a toddler. What had I been thinking? If she’d taken a step back, or if Adam hadn’t been fast enough, she could have been killed.

She wasn’t in any danger. You didn’t throw it at her, just rolled it past her. It wouldn’t have hit her. You saved him, and he didn’t even notice.

He frowned at me after we moved over a lane (for the safety of everyone, though the anxious manager didn’t actually come out and say that). We restarted the game, and he let me bowl first.

I carefully rolled the first ball down the gutter, where it wouldn’t be likely to hit anyone. I don’t know if I did it for my own sake or to reassure anyone watching me.

All you were trying to do was keep Adam happy. And this is the thanks you get.

Almost squishing babies wasn’t exactly an act I expected thanks for. I rubbed my forehead as if it would help clear my thoughts.

It wouldn’t have hit her. You made sure of it. Even if Adam had missed, it would have rolled harmlessly past.

Adam watched me thoughtfully, but he didn’t say anything to me as I engineered my loss by a hundred bazillion points. I could hardly bowl well after my spectacular failure, or someone would figure out I’d done it on purpose.

I had done it on purpose, hadn’t I?

I couldn’t believe I’d done something like that. What was wrong with me? If Adam had looked more approachable, I might have talked to him about it.

He doesn’t want to hear what you have to say. Best just keep quiet. He’d never understand anyway.

I didn’t mind, didn’t object anyhow, to the way Adam made sure to stand where he could field my ball if I lost control again. After all, his rescue of the baby looked better if he seemed to think I was an idiot, right?

Four turns in, Adam stepped in front of me, and said in a low voice that wouldn’t carry beyond us, “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? What in the hell were you thinking?”

And for some reason, even though I agreed with him, his question made me mad. Or maybe that was the voice in my head.

He should have understood sooner. He should understand his mate better than anyone. You shouldn’t have to defend yourself to him. Best not to say anything at all.

I raised an eyebrow and stalked past him to pick up my ball. Hurt fed anger. I was so mad I forgot myself enough to get a strike. I made sure it was the last point I made in the game—and I didn’t say a word to him.

Adam won with a score over two hundred. When he finished bowling the last frame, he took both our balls back to the rack while I changed my shoes.

The teenage boys (by then five lanes away) stopped him and had him sign an autograph for them. I took my shoes back to the desk and turned them in—and paid for the game, too.

“Is he really the Alpha?” asked the teenage girl behind the counter.

“Yep,” I said through clenched lips.

“Wow.”

“Yep.”

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.

“Mercy.”

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.

“I 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.

“We 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.

“Mercy,” 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 bewilderment—something had happened, and he didn’t know what it was. He just knew he’d screwed up somehow. He had no idea how it had gone so badly wrong.

I didn’t want to know what he was feeling because it only made me stupider—and more vulnerable.

“I have to go in,” I told the stick in my hand because I couldn’t look up at Adam’s face just then. If I’d looked at him, I think I would have run, and he’d have chased me. Some other day, that might have been fun. Tonight, it would be disastrous. So I moved slowly.