Maisie
Mercer once told me that the second you let your emotions enter a fight, you already lost.
Tessa came at me with a frustrated scream, and it had been five long minutes of ducking, side stepping and dodging her blows efficiently. Though I hadn't struck her back, she was red-faced, her cute ponytail hanging around her shoulders as I kept spinning out of the way.
I thought happy thoughts.
I thought of the mornings I woke beside my mates. I thought about breakfast in the mansion's kitchens. I thought about France. I thought about home.
Tessa's claws came striking for my face. She was so predictable, always angling to tear off my face. I guessed she wasn't lying when she said she hated my face.
I tipped back and punched her in the throat.
She wheezed, eyes bulging as she grabbed her neck. I slammed my knee into her stomach and drew back my fist.
The crack of my fist shattering her jaw echoed in the yard, and she hit the dirt with a thud at my feet.
