Maisie
I raised my hand in defense, but he braced himself low. "You're on offense, Adams. Give it your best shot."
He was taunting me. Mocking me.
I lunged without thinking about it. I was tired and irritated and hot. And I went for a clean shot at that annoying face. But Mercer sidestepped without any effort and I stumbled through empty air, landing on my hands and knees.
My jaw tightened.
"Predictable." He called. "You went where your brain told you to go. Your brain is not your friend in a fight." He walked around to face me again. "What does your body want to do?"
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "To punch your teeth out."
His eyes grew dark. The air suddenly felt heavier, thicker. "Then do that, if you can."
My teeth gritted and I lunged again, only to grasp at air.
Mercer circled me once more, sweat already gleaming along the sharp cut of his collarbones and the deep V that disappeared into his low-slung training pants. His green eyes never left mine. They were darker than they were ten minutes ago, and I hated how every part of me tightened as I noticed.
I hated noticing how thirsty I'd gone at the sight of him. How my breasts had tightened against my shirt, how the pain in my back had become secondary to the heat pressing between my legs.
Was this a normal thing to feel during the transition? Like I was on heat and ready to get down and dirty in front of a hall filled with people?
"Again," Mercer said. The word was quieter, almost intimate. "Tackle me like you want to put me on my back, Adams." His tongue flicked over his mouth. "You know you want to."
My skin was feverishly hot, my head still pounding, but all that mattered was the way he said my last name in a dark, taunting growl. Like he knew the disturbing thoughts plaguing my mind.
I charged at him, lips pulled back in a snarl. I slammed into his midsection with my shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist like I could snap him in half. He absorbed the impact, legs braced, then twists, using my momentum against me. We spun together in a violent, perfect dance, until he hooked an arm under my thigh and lifted, flipping our positions mid-air.
My back hit the mat first and I gasped at the pain. He followed, caging me in completely. One knee planted between my legs, the other braced outside my hip. His forearms bracketed my head. His face hovered inches above mine, close enough that I felt the heat rolling off his skin, smell the sharp cedar-and-salt of his sweat, taste the ghost of his breath when he exhaled.
I forgot the raw pain spasming in my back as I caught the gold highlights in his green eyes.
Neither of us moved. I could hear my own heartbeat slamming against my ribs. I could hear his too, faster than it should have been for a man who barely exerted himself.
His eyes lingered on my mouth for one dangerous second before flicking back up. "You're trembling, Adams," he murmured, and the depth of his voice went straight to my core. "Do I frighten you?"
I bared my teeth. "You're hard, Mercer. Do I arouse you?"
It was a horribly stupid thing to say.
But as if the words called it into existence, a thick, unmistakable ridge of him pressed against me through layers of fabric.
A small gasp climbed up my throat. I hated that he heard it. I hated it more that my hips twitched upward on instinct, chasing the pressure before I could stop myself. My body arched underneath him, just enough to brush against that length and a low involuntary sound rumbled in his chest. Something deeper. Primal. His forearms flexed beside my head, veins standing out, knuckles whitening as he jerked away from me.
"Again," he ordered, but his voice was hoarse.
It was reckless, if a little wild, and it shouldn't have worked, but Mercer was distracted. He was staring at my mouth like wanted to taste it.
And so, he didn't move out of the way until I had hooked a leg around his calf and bucked hard, until I had him on his back, straddling his hips, one palm braced on his pecs, the other wrapped around his throat.
"If I had claws, you would be dead," I said shakily. "I win."
Instructor Warren blew the whistle, ordering every group to follow in our steps, and it reminded me that over two hundred students were watching us. I cringed away from Mercer, the world returning in tiny increments, and with that, so did the pain and the cold.
I felt bile crawl up my throat.
I was going to be sick.
"Adams," I heard Mercer say as I hurried out the hall, hurtling for the bathroom. I barely made it past the door before I was puking my guts up, tears stinging my eyes.
Hands were on my shoulders, lifting my hair out of the way as I puked. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I heaved, and heaved, and those hands drew soothing circles on my pulse.
It might have been seconds, minutes, or hours, but eventually, my stomach calmed. Though, it left me so weary, I couldn't move.
"Who hurt you?" Mercer asked.
My shirt was raised and I knew he was staring at the length of scars running across my back. I could almost feel him glaring at each line–all twenty-five of them.
"Does it matter?" I said bitterly.
"We are possessive beings, Adams. It matters when someone fucks around with our possessions." His fingers brushed my back again. "I'll ask one more time. Who. Hurt. You?"
The violence in his words nearly had the name tumbling off my lips. But I merely reached back and yanked my shirt back down. I stood on shaky legs and turned to meet Mercer's gaze. "Everyone's hurt me, Mercer. My parents. The pack. My sister. You and your cruel friends. What will you do about it?"
His nostrils flared, but I stood my ground, even as my vision began to double. "I would appreciate… if you stopped acting like you cared about me. It might give the impression that I am more than a loose end to you. I don't want any more trouble."
When I brushed past him, he didn't stop me.