I sucked in a breath. I could see how he might have interpreted it that way. “You know that section of the Bible, where Jesus tells Peter he’ll deny him three times before morning? Peter says, ‘Heck no.’ But sure enough when he’s asked by some people if he’s one of Jesus’ followers, he says he’s not. And after the third time, he hears the cock crow and realizes what he’s done. I feel like Peter right now.”

Adam started laughing. He turned around, and I saw bright gold eyes looking through me the way wolves’ eyes always seem to do. More than that, he’d actually begun to change a little—his jaw was longer, the angle of his cheekbones slightly different. “You’re comparing me to Jesus? Like this?” He used his fingers to motion toward his face. “Don’t you think you’re being a little sacrilegious?”

His voice was bitter.

“No more than I’m Saint Peter,” I told him. “But I had Peter’s ‘what have I done’ moment—only his was instantaneous, and mine took a lot longer. It started when I heard Maia scream while I was working in the garage and continued pretty much up until you talked to Bran and bought Samuel a little more time. Funny how making decisions that seem right at the time…”

I shook my head. “Peter probably thought that telling the guy he wasn’t one of Jesus’ followers was the smartest thing to do. Kept him alive, for one. I thought keeping Samuel alive—as he wasn’t raving or killing anyone… yet—was a good idea. I thought that telling you I needed a little space was good. Give me some time to wrap my head around having other people rattling around in my mind without hurting you because it scared me silly.”

“What?” asked Adam incredulously.

I bowed my head, and said, “Because it scared me—scares me—silly.”

He shook his head. “Not that part—the keeping it from hurting me part.”

“You don’t like being a werewolf,” I told him. “Oh, you deal with it—but you hate it. You think that it makes you a freak. I didn’t want you to know I had problems with some of the werewolf stuff, too.” I swallowed. “Okay, more problems than just that whole ‘I must control your life because you belong to me’ that most of the werewolves I know have.”

He stared at me with his yellow eyes and elongated face. His mouth was open slightly because his upper and lower jaw no longer quite matched up. I could see the edges of teeth that were sharper and more uneven than they usually were.

“I am a freak, Mercy,” he said, and I snorted.