12. Jane

I stare at myself in the locker room mirror, wondering if death by firing squad wouldn't be preferable. I'm wearing the Academy PT uniform, consisting of a cotton t-shirt and tight shorts, all borrowed from Drew's gym bag. The clothes clearly haven't been washed since the last time he wore them, and his citrus iron scent is literally soaking into my skin.

But that's not what is making me cringe. My panties are so wet I've stuffed them in my shoe to hide the scent. Since I only have the one pair of panties, Drew gave me one of his jocks, his face almost as red as mine as I stared at the scrap of fabric. But what choice do I have? If I want to keep up my disguise, I need to stuff the shorts with the rolled-up socks, and I can't do that while going commando.

A hysterical giggle works its way up my throat as I stare at my soft bulge. I can't tell if it's believable. Despite the many bodies I've healed, I've never made a study of the male pelvic region and its proportions. Maybe the class will take one look at me and burst into laughter. But I suppose it's still better than going out there without any dick at all.

Mother Mercy, protect me.

I don't have sneakers, so I have to creep out of the locker room barefoot, overly conscious of the boxy monitor strapped to my ankle. The door spits me out into a long concrete hallway with dim lighting. Still, there's no hope of getting lost; I can hear the shouts leaking through the gym door like a war rally.

When I reach it, I pause, breathing in the heavy scent of alpha sweat, dried blood, and pure testosterone. This is it. The ‘do or die' moment …

I gulp, squaring my shoulders and pushing my way inside right as something slams into the wall next to my head. The shock makes me reel backwards, but the heavy door has closed behind me, and I bounce forward, sprawling onto my knees. That jeering laughter I was dreading fills the gym, heavy boots thumping on the floor and coming to a stop under my nose. I try to scramble up, but a hand comes down on my head, pressing hard enough to hurt. "What the fuck are you doing here, runt?"

I shudder at the alpha growl, and I don't need to tip my head back to know it's Manson. His steel and musk scent swirls around me, growing bitter the longer he holds me in place. When he finally lets me go, he wipes his hand down the wall in disgust. "You smell like Locke just rode your ass around the field."

"I had to borrow his clothes," I mutter, pushing up off my bruised knees. "I didn't know I was going to be in this class."

"Just stay out of the way," he growls, wrenching something off the wall next to the gym door. It's a rubber bolt and was clearly shot from the crossbow he has balanced on his shoulder. "You're fucking lucky we're just practicing."

I stare at his retreating back, as wide as a barn door in his tactical black uniform. I only look away when Drew jogs over to my side, wincing when he sees the size of the dent in the wall. "Shit, are you okay, Jack?"

"A little warning would've been nice," I complain, hugging my elbows. "What's going on? Are we preparing for a siege?"

Drew rolls his eyes, gesturing to the group of hulking alphas Manson has just joined. There's more than a dozen of them, all decked out in black uniforms and carrying practice bows. "The Trap Team has commandeered the gym. But don't worry, we're heading out to do a cross-country course."

I nod, relieved. I wouldn't choose to spend my time running through the woods, but it beats the Trap Team using my head as target practice. But we're barely halfway across the gym when an older alpha in sweats and an instructor jersey steps in front of us. "Newbies have to pass a fitness test." He looks me over, his dark eyes inspecting my bare feet before landing on the ankle monitor. "Another goddamn Cutter, I hear."

Drew opens his mouth to defend me, but the gym instructor swivels and points to the door. "Out, Locke. I'll take care of your little friend here. "

I swallow at his hard scowl. I don't know if it's my size, my false name, or the ankle monitor that he's most offended by, but I feel my stomach sink as he glares at me. I'm acutely conscious of the Trap Team watching, amused leers on their faces. Drew shoots me a pained look, but the instructor clearly isn't going to back down. He watches until Drew has disappeared through the door, then claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry, runt. We'll make a man out of you, even if it kills you."

I'd grimace at the threat if I wasn't trying to stop myself from throwing up.

I've never questioned my fitness before. Growing up on the commune and then spending my late teens in a hospital ward, I know a thing or two about endurance. But the gym instructor's expectations are on a whole new level, and before ten minutes are up, I'm a sweating, gasping mess. I can self-regulate my body enough to stop from passing out, but as I complete my twentieth lap of the gym with another dozen burpees, I can feel my stomach trying to worm its way out of my throat.

"He's going green, sir," one of the Trap Team guys jeers, watching me bend over and grasp my trembling knees.

"You puke, you clean it up with your tongue, runt!" the instructor barks.

It's enough to make me gag, but I use a tendril of my power to settle my stomach, swallowing down the mouthful of bile. It's dangerous healing myself with so many hostile eyes on me, but if I let my body start falling apart, passing out won't be far behind. And the thought of what the Trap Team might do while I'm unconscious sends an icy shudder rippling across my skin.

"You're not even halfway through, runt!" the instructor growls, his hand slapping hard on my ass. "After this, you've got the rope and the gauntlet."

He gestures to the other end of the gym and a wave of despair washes over me. I can probably make it up the knotted rope to the bell at the ceiling, but the gauntlet is an obstacle course of barbed wire and six-foot walls I'll never get through.

I open my mouth to admit defeat when a familiar pair of boots swims into my vision. "He's a Cutter, right?" Manson reaches down and grips the back of my neck with steely fingers. "Aren't they meant to have blades for blood?" I blink, trying to hold back a shiver at the feel of his gloved hand on my vulnerable nape, but he just squeezes tighter. "Torrens is useless since he lost a finger. Maybe the little runt should be our next blade boy."

There's another wave of laughter at my back, but the instructor grunts. "You think he's up to it?"

"All he needs to do is handle our knives and keep his blood off our kit." Manson's fingers give me a hard little shake. "Sounds like the perfect job for a Bleak House freak."

There's a rumble of agreement from the other alphas, and then Manson pulls me upright, shoving me back so I have to look up at him. He's even bigger than Travis, and with the advantage of his thick-soled boots, he looms over me, all muscles and malice in his tactical leathers. He's wearing a black chest plate with the Trap Team emblem on the front, his crossbow jutting up past his shoulder blades. There are pockets and buckles all the way down the legs of his trousers, but my gaze stutters when it reaches the belt around his waist. A pair of twin knives rest in the sheathes on his hips, as intimidating as axes.

His dark eyes stare down at me, hard as granite. "You ever watch a Trapshot game, runt?"

I shake my head. I've heard of it, of course, but the stories are too outlandish to be true. There's no way the academy would risk their elite students in war games involving knives and crossbows…

"Why don't we try him out?" someone suggests. "See if he can handle a blade, or if he pisses himself at the sight of his own blood."

"My money's on piss," another alpha laughs and they slap hands, their team members stepping forward to place bets on the resilience of my bladder.

"We need three things from a blade boy," Manson tells me, slowly drawing a knife from its sheath. It's a practice blade, so the edge is blunt, but it still looks pretty lethal as he points it at me. "You gotta be able to carry it, dodge it, and pass it."

"And not get your blood or piss on our kit in the process," the alpha taking bets laughs.

Manson just grunts and grabs my arm, his fingers wrapping all the way around my bicep. He drags me over to a target which is mounted on metal legs and is at least six feet tall. The surface is scuffed and pitted with hundreds of marks, although most are clustered around the red bullseye in the middle.

"First, let's see you throw it," Manson says, pressing his knife into my hand. The hilt is still warm from his touch, and I stare down at the starburst design that marks it as Trap Team property. I have no business even looking at the thing and I swallow uneasily as Manson nudges me in front of the board. "You won't be doing this in a game, but if you can't handle a blade, you have no business being anywhere near the field."

It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him I have no interest in being near his brutal game, but he nudges me again, tipping his chin towards the target. "Relaxed hold. Half rotation throw. If it bounces back, it could slice your dick off, so watch for that."

It takes me a moment to realize he's giving me pointers, and I blink at him, but he's already stepping away and crossing his arms. The other alphas have gathered around, their eyes bright with cruel interest, and I take a shallow breath to avoid choking on their sour scents.

"Come on, runt!" one of them shouts. "Show us what Cutters are good for."

There are a couple of snorts at that, but I just grit my teeth and flick my hand in the direction of the target. I'm aiming to miss, so I'm not surprised it sails past the board and skitters across the gym floor. "Not knife throwing, obviously," I mutter as they dissolve into taunting jeers.

But Manson cuts them off with a swipe of his hand, glaring down at me. "Do it again, and this time throw it like your life depends on it." I flush, embarrassed he knows I wasn't trying. And when he wraps my fingers around his other knife, he squeezes them in warning. "I put your name forward for this, so don't fuck it up."

I hide my scowl by turning stiffly back to the board. I'm contemplating another feeble throw when someone mutters, "Why are we wasting our time on a Bleak House freak? They're all fucking useless."

The insult stings, and my body snaps forward on reflex. The knife flies from my hand, completing a perfect half rotation before thudding into the target with enough force to make the hilt vibrate. It's slightly off center, but close enough to the bullseye to have someone whistle through their teeth. "Not bad, runt. You've got some muscle in those scrawny arms."

"Yeah, but is he fast?" I turn warily to find a red-haired alpha approaching me with a grin. It's not a friendly smile, and I start backing up. "During the game, knives will be flying everywhere," he says, stalking closer. "You need to be pretty nimble on your feet or you're gonna get hurt."

I catch a frown from Manson, but his teammates are laughing as they watch me retreat, and he gives a careless shrug. "If you don't run now, we can stop practicing and give you a taste of game night."

Dodging knives ? If that happens, I can't imagine getting out of here without losing at least a little blood. Which would probably mean a trip to the hospital, maybe even to the mercy ward.

So, I do the only thing I can, turning and sprinting towards the other end of the gym.

A chorus of whoops and howls go up, raising the hair on my arms and spurring me on. My heart is pounding in my ears as I dash past the end of the obstacle course, but their boots still sound like war drums behind me. I put on another burst of speed, heading for the rope dangling in front of me. I cast a desperate glance at the instructor, but he just raises his brows, and I fling myself at the rope. Thanking Mother Mercy for all the years I spent hauling myself in and out of haylofts, I quickly shimmy upwards. The rope is anchored at the top, but it falls loose at the bottom, and I cry out as someone grabs the end and gives it a violent shake.

"Come down, little runt!" I cast a glance back at the gym floor and see the red-haired alpha grinning up at me as he jerks the rope. "You go much higher, and you might fall and break your neck!"

The malice in his voice makes my stomach lurch, but I drag myself higher, focusing only on getting to the top. If I reach the bell, they have to let me down, right? It might not be as good as juggling knives, but it's an achievement of sorts.

"Where does he think he's gonna go?" one of the alphas laughs. "You think he's planning on staying up there all day?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," the red-haired alpha mutters, jerking the rope so hard I lose my grip.

"Mercy!" I cry out, scrambling to tighten my hold. For a moment I think I'm going to drop all the way to the gym floor, but I manage to grab the rope, hissing as it burns my palms.

"Enough!" the instructor barks out, finally deciding to rein his players in. "You proved your point, Logan."

I assume he means the red-haired alpha, but I don't move until the team moves off and the instructor gives me an impatient nod. With shaking hands, I inch down the rope, wincing as I drop the last couple of feet. "Sit over there while they go through a practice run," he says, pointing to a patch of floor off to the side. "Watch closely, because it's all gonna go a lot faster on game night."

I nod, ignoring the sly grins from the players as I slump on the floor in relief. My heart is still hammering in my chest, and I spend a few moments regulating my breathing, my wary gaze on the players. They've divided into two teams, five-a-side, and face off over the centerline. All their amusement drains away as they stare at each other, and at the starting whistle they attack. I quickly realize it's one-on-one combat to either disarm their opponent or force them to retreat towards the target line. If a knife is snatched away, they pull the other one from their belt, but if they lose that, too, they sit out. I wonder if it's the blade boy's responsibility to replace them during game night. Which would probably involve running between clashing alphas while gripping a knife sharp enough to slice off a thumb – which was the fate of the team's previous blade boy.

After watching them for a while, I decide the aim of the game is to push past the opponents' target line, where the player's knife is replaced by the crossbow on their backs. Once in the zone, they get one shot at the target, and if the bolt hits the bullseye, they score a kill, which is worth five points. Hitting anywhere else on the target gets a single point and a lot of ugly catcalls from the other players. I shudder to think what happens if they miss altogether, but whatever the outcome, the teams return to the centerline and start all over again.

It's noisy, fast-paced, and violent - and they're teammates who are playing with practice weapons. I can barely imagine what the field will look like on game night.

Not that I plan to be anywhere in the Trap Team's vicinity to find out.

"Trapshot grew out of the carnage on the battlefields when we first went up against the ferals," the instructor tells me, watching the action with a critical eye. "A pistol is useful until an alpha with five-inch claws swipes it out of your hand. We had to adapt and learn close combat skills. If a Vistrian war party rolls over your platoon, you want to show them the pointy end of a damn good knife."

I've seen the damage those claws can do, most recently on Lieutenant Steele. No one really knows why our enemies to the north developed fangs and claws, but mercy wards full of injured soldiers prove we're badly outmatched when it comes to their sheer savagery.

"And the crossbows?" When he looks at me blankly, I ask, "Are they used on the battlefield, too?"

The instructor snorts. "Nah, they're just for fun."

And they do seem to be having fun, even though they must be sporting some deep bruising under their protective gear. Because they throw their entire substantial bulk into the fray, and I find myself watching Manson as he drives his opponent back using just his left shoulder as a battering ram.

In fact, I'm watching him so closely I catch the moment his opponent's knife is knocked from his hand, flying through the air in my direction. The instructor quickly moves back, putting him safely out of the firing line, and I try to scoot away on my butt. But it all happens too quickly, a cry of warning going up from Manson a second before I raise my hand and catch the knife only a foot from my face. It's a practice blade, but it still has an edge, and it slices into my palm. I hiss in pain, but my body is healing it before I can stop myself. I scurry back against the wall, bent over and panting as I wipe the blood on the underside of my t-shirt. The fabric is dark enough to hide the stain, and I quickly turn the knife in my hand. Mother Mercy, please let them think I caught the hilt instead of the blade.

The instructor is hollering at the guy who lost his knife, but Manson stalks over and plucks it from my grasp. He grabs my palm, inspecting it for damage, and I look up the long line of his body to find a strange glint in his eyes.

"Do you need to see a mercy?" the instructor barks over his shoulder.

I hold Manson stare for a moment longer, but as he drops my hand and heads back to practice, I numbly shake my head. "I'm fine. I managed to miss the blade."

"Well, that has to be a good omen." But then the instructor's scowl quickly returns. "Turn up at the stadium an hour before game time on Friday. A minute late and flying knives will be the least of your problems, Cutter."

When practice resumes, the instructor tells me to go clean up and I stumble back to the locker room, showering and dressing in record time. I don't wait for Drew to come back from his run, rolling his dirty gym clothes into a ball and stuffing them under my arm. With shaking fingers, I take the printout from my pocket and check my schedule. I breathe a sigh of relief to find I have Study Hall in the library, creeping back out of the locker room and scurrying in the opposite direction of the gym.

I have no problem locating the library, since it's also used by the military administration, and stands alone on a small rise like a fortress built to repel invaders. Military colleges take their history seriously, and it's rumored there are whole archives under the building, floor-to-ceiling records detailing the army's bloodiest battles.

When I mount the imposing marble stairs, I quake at the sight of the soldier standing guard at the door. But he barely glances at the student ID clipped to my lapel before he pulls it open and brusquely gestures me inside.

I shiver as I step into the cool entryway. It looks more like a museum than a library, with the army insignia engraved on the floor and long glass cases lining both walls. Trophies and ribbons are displayed inside, along with formal portraits of men in military uniforms. I approach the largest one and jerk to a halt when I find an older version of Manson staring back at me. He has the same cold eyes and thin mouth, with the heavy brow and jutting chin of a powerful alpha. My stomach pitches into my shoes when I read the engraving underneath: General Patrick Levi Manson, Commander of the Alpha Elite Corps.

This is Manson's father? No wonder he's a raging dick.

The insult makes me feel a little better, but it doesn't stop the flutter in my knees as I swipe through the carded entry and head into the library.

It's three floors of wood and marble, built around an open atrium. The two levels above are full of bookshelves, with a balcony view of the study area below. Carved columns and huge wooden tables are crammed into the open space, and I look around for my class. Random students are hunched over piles of books, but a short whistle makes me look up.

Travis is leaning on the railing and staring down at me. As soon as I catch his eye, he jerks his head, and I raise my brows. When he points to the staircase, I nod, and keeping my head down, hurry over and start climbing. My leg muscles tremble from overuse, but he's moved around to meet me, and as soon as I hit the top, he grabs my arm. I should probably put up a bit of a fight as he drags me backwards between two towering bookshelves, but to be honest, I'm almost shaking with relief.

Somehow, in no time at all, he's become a refuge.

But the first words out of his mouth are a growl. "Why do you smell like blood?"

I look down at myself, wondering if I missed something with my shower. "I'm okay. It was gym class…"

Something he's already worked out by himself, since he's plucked the balled-up clothes out from under my arm. I watch his jaw flicker as he breathes them in. "You were meant to be doing cross-country. Did you trip? Did someone push you?" He drops the dirty clothes at his feet, his hands snapping out to brush down my torso, his big fingers skimming my every curve. It takes me a moment to realize he's checking for injuries, and I flush, trying to push him away. But then his head snaps back, and he folds his arms, glaring at me. "You smell like Levi Manson… and sex."

I gape at him, my blush burning hotter. I'm amazed he can pick one alpha out of the soup of scents I've waded through today, but that's really just a side note. Because I'm stuck with the image of the Trap Team alpha pressing down on the back of my neck…

"No!" I whisper-hiss at him, crossing my own arms. " That didn't happen."

He tilts his head, considering. It's dim in the small space between the shelves and his eyes glint like a predator. "You and… Lawrence?"

I gulp, then give a jerky nod. I should've adjusted my scent after my shower, but I'd just wanted to get the hell away from the locker room. "Sort of. But we just fooled around a little." I shake my head, feeling guilty under his intense regard. "It didn't mean anything."

Travis grunts, but reaches out and tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Lawrence Michaelson is a lord and a legacy, Jane. He's an entitled brat, but he's also important enough to be dangerous. And you need to keep a low profile if you want to get safely out of here in a couple of weeks." All good reminders, so I give another jerky nod and Travis bends to scoop up my dirty gym clothes. I mumble a protest as he squeezes them into his backpack, but he just takes my arm and steers me deeper into the library stacks.

"Are we going to study?" I whisper as we turn into a small, windowless cubicle. But we're not alone; a beta with a shock of red hair is standing there with a camera looped over his shoulder. "Alpha," he says in a respectful tone. "I brought what you asked for."

He gestures behind him, and I see a long blonde wig, a blue silk scarf, and a tube of lipstick resting on a desk.

"Good," Travis rumbles, grabbing the wig and holding it out. "For your new ID," he tells me. "Kyle will take your picture and have the card ready in a couple of days."

"It usually takes a week…" The beta starts to protest, then swallows at the look Travis gives him. "But I'm sure I can fast-track it."

I pull on the wig, biting my lip at the feel of hair swishing around my shoulders again. But mourning my loss will have to wait, and I quickly loop the scarf around my neck, then swipe the lipstick over my mouth. I seriously doubt I'd win any beauty awards, but I stand still and smile while Kyle takes a few pictures. When I try to give him the disguise back, he waves me off. "Keep it. I'll have the card ready in a couple of days." He shoots Travis another careful glance, bobbing his head. "Alpha."

Travis just watches him scurry out of the room, then turns to finger the end of my fake hair. "A girl dressed as a boy pretending to be a girl."

"I know," I huff, biting the edge of my cherry-glossed lips. "It's crazy."

"Crazy but necessary," he says quietly. "Just don't forget who you are, or what will happen if they find out the truth."

I nod, and he takes the wig and scarf, stuffing them into his bag. The lipstick, I note, goes into the pocket of his uniform.

"Tonight, we make a plan to get you out of here safely. Agreed?"

I think of Law's invitation to spend the night in his apartment, but push the idea away. Like Travis said, I need to keep a clear head, and a lord and legacy is a distraction I can't afford. "Agreed."