19. Jane

I always knew I was living on borrowed time.

Sentinel Academy might be a sprawling campus, but it's also home to the military compound where my sentence was handed down. There's less than a mile between where I am standing right now and the courtroom in the bowels of the Citadel Mountains, where I was condemned to die on the front.

My crimes were always going to catch up with me.

I just never expected my cover to be blown by the captain of the Trap Team.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, but when he clicks his tongue in warning, my shoulders slump. Out of all the people on campus, why did it have to be Manson who figured out my secret? "You're wrong," I insist. "I'm Jack Cutter."

"You really expect me to believe that with those lips, those eyes? Not to mention those nipples pushing through that jacket like they're begging to escape."

I quickly clamp my arms across my chest, and Manson smirks, even though it must hurt like hell with all his bruising. "I should probably tell the Dean we need to overhaul our enemy awareness sessions, since I seem to be the only one who can see what's right in front of his eyes."

He quirks a brow at me, but I know it's a very real threat. If I push him, he has no reason to protect my identity. The only way to buy myself enough time to escape is to redirect his attention. "Look, you don't want my help. For injuries like those, you need a doctor. And the head of emergency medicine would love to take care of a general's son."

A terrible smile pulls at his bloodied lip. "You think I want old Humphries putting his hands on me? Besides, I want to see why those soldiers stumble off a mercy ward looking like they've just swallowed a slice of heaven."

"Not all of them do," I say sharply, because more patients die under our care than I can bear thinking about. "But if you want a mercy, there are plenty on the ward. I'm not… I don't do healings right now."

"Because you're not good enough to deal with that?" he asks, staring down at the sliver of bone sticking through his forearm.

"Yes," I fib, holding firm despite how bad his pain must be right now. "If you don't want a doctor, you should ask for a senior mercy."

"But you were good enough for Colonel York. He let you take care of his mate, right?" My heart lurches as he leans forward, his face gray under his hard stare. "My dad told me all about it. You were called to treat them, and you ended up nearly killing them both. You're enemy number one, Mercy."

His dad's been talking about me like that? I feel like I've been punched in the gut. "No!"

"Yes. You poisoned a senior officer. That gets most people the firing squad."

I swallow hard, trying to think of a way out, but he has backed me into a corner and we both know it. "I didn't poison him…"

"I don't care. You probably have your reasons." That shocks me for a moment, but his gaze has dropped to my ankle, his face unreadable as he takes in the monitor. I shuffle back a step, but his gaze snaps back up, pinning me in place. "If you don't fix me, Parker can escort you over to the Military Administration Building right now. I'm sure the brigadier would love to hear how you escaped your sentence on the front."

I shudder, and he grins, patting his knee with his good hand. "Come on, Mercy. I don't bite."

I'm pretty sure that's a lie. His smile, dark and ominous on his damaged face, includes the hint of canines. Not as feral as a Vistrian alpha, but it still makes my heart hammer in my chest.

"Okay," I say quietly, "but you're going to pay for this healing. Firstly, with your silence. You don't report back to Law's father or tell the brigadier anything about me."

"Fine," he gives a bored shrug. "And what's your second condition? "

"You tell your teammates to leave the Bleak House residents alone. They're off-limits, especially to Logan. If he hits Avery in the face again, I'll show you both what damage I can do." It's mostly bluster, although the memory of Avery's pain is enough to make my blood boil. "And if you have any sway with Dryer, then warn him off as well."

He tilts his head, his voice flat. "Felix Dryer has been giving you a hard time?"

"I don't know his first name, but he's a bully, and he's been targeting Avery for a while."

He looks me over slowly, taking in what I assume is my very bedraggled appearance. "That's all you want?"

I scramble to think of anything else, but what I need – safe passage off campus, and a fair deal for the Bleak House guys – aren't things he can give. "They're my conditions, and I expect you to uphold them."

I expect him to argue, or at the very least to remind me of the Omega Oath, which requires me to heal all in need, regardless of designation, station, or power. But he just sits back on the bench and pats his left thigh again. "Get to it, Mercy."

I bite back a grimace, forcing myself to look past the man to his injuries. The broken arm is the most concerning, but I suspect he also has a couple of other fractures from the careful way he's moving.

"Just to be clear, keep your hands to yourself," I warn him, stepping up between his feet. "I haven't poisoned anyone, but I can hurt you just as easily as I can heal you."

Something flares in his eyes - a strange mix of heat, anger, and even something that looks like hope – and I have to grip my thighs to stop myself from retreating.

He's just another patient. You've faced worse and survived it.

But I'm not sure if that's true as I stare down into his one good eye, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders. There's something about Levi Manson that makes my knees quake.

Just another patient.

Focus on his forearm, the fractured ribs, the deep tissue damage.

I still feel off balance, but now that I'm thinking like a mercy, it's almost muscle memory to lean down and press my mouth to his. My first thought is that I'll need a lot of power to deal with the broken bones, especially now I'm close enough to feel the fractures I can't see under his clothes. Anger rises in me, because as much as I don't like him, I hate bullies more, and there's no way these injuries came from anything but a brutal beating .

Anger is good. Anger I can use. There's always some tendril of it in the back of my mind with a healing like this. I don't like injuries that could be avoided, and while I don't know the specifics of how Manson got hurt, I can sense the nature of the violence that was used against him. War, for all its gruesomeness, tastes clean, while accidental injuries barely have any taste at all. But cruelty and vindictiveness leave a sour residue, and Manson's mouth is rife with it.

And he's in so much pain, it's like his entire body is clenched around a live wire. I start by soothing it away, adjusting the chemistry of his breath by sweetening the sugars and stripping out the toxins. As expected, his shoulder muscles unclench an inch, but nothing prepares me for the burst of sweet cherries against my tongue, or the little moan that slips from his lips.

He doesn't touch me, but he shudders, and an alarm bell rings in my hindbrain.

Draw back. Pace yourself. Treat the worst injuries and call it a day.

All good advice, but my body doesn't seem to be listening. Instead, I'm deepening the kiss, weaving something between us that feels dangerously intimate.

Mercy, Jane! Don't think about the way his lips taste, or the way he sighs into your mouth.

Shame flares inside me, and I force myself to focus. Channeling my power, I carefully knit muscle and bone back together before chasing down blood clots and soothing out contusions. It's a concentrated burst – more than I've used since Steele and York – and now that the worst of his pain is gone, Manson should be drawing back, pushing me away.

But instead, his tongue … It nudges past my seam, dipping in and feeling the shape of my own. When it withdraws, it licks along my bottom lip, and then he gathers the flesh between his teeth. Gentle, barely-there nibbles, before hands grip my hips, urging me down into his lap…

"Wait!" I pull away, shocked to find my arms loosening from around his neck. I can tell from the slight ache in my muscles that instead of keeping my distance, I've been clinging to him. Mother Mercy. "That's enough. We need to stop."

"More," he argues, diving back into my mouth and rubbing against my tongue. They tangle together and my head spins, a whimper bursting on our mingled breath. It's enough to clear the haze, and I stiffen, freezing in place. What am I doing? In the space of a few short minutes, I've gone from bargaining over a healing, to kissing him like my life depends on it. And I'm not even thinking about his injuries. It's all pleasure and anticipation, which is about as unprofessional as a mercy can be.

I try to pull away again, but now Manson's tipping my chin up and taking control of the kiss. For some reason, I don't fight him, sinking deeper into that warm pool lapping around us. A hazy heat is winding through my blood, and everywhere our skin touches, tiny sparks are igniting.

How can I like this?

He's a cold-hearted thug who threatened my friends and blackmailed me into treating him.

"This isn't right," I mumble against his swollen mouth.

"It's perfect," he growls back. "Don't stop. I feel great."

But sanity finally prevails, and I wrench my head away, fighting the grip on my hips. He growls low in his throat as I peel myself off his lap, but it's a contented, grumpy sound more than a warning. When I look into his face, the swelling is completely gone, his eyes watching me with the intensity of a hawk.

"It's wrong!" I protest, taking a step back. I run a shaking hand over my head, flinching away from the soft bristles. "I told you not to touch me. That was a healing, nothing more!"

"Fine." He stands up slowly, like he's testing his muscles, but then gives a lopsided smile and grabs a jacket from beside him on the bench. He shrugs it on, and the Trap Team emblem swims in front of my dazed eyes. "And it worked. You did good work, Mercy."

"But…" I don't know why I'm arguing with him. He's clearly better, his movements smooth and pain-free. I've done my job, and according to a quick internal inventory, I don't even feel drained. In fact, other than the persistent tremble in my knees, I feel like I'm bubbling with energy.

"Have you got stuff back at the freaks' house?" I blink up into his face at the question, but he's grabbed my hand and is tugging me across the room. "Doesn't matter. You'll have everything you need in my dorm."

"What?" Finally, my brain and body seem to reconnect, and I dig in my heels. Of course, it's like trying to fight gravity as Manson keeps moving towards the door. "Wait! I'm not going to your dorm!"

"That's my condition," he says over his shoulder. "I'll protect your friends and keep you hidden, but on my turf, not theirs." He glances down my body, something flashing in his dark eyes. "Strip."

" What? "

But he's already pivoting and heading over to another door, dragging me in his wake. A light flares, blinding me, and when I blink away the sting, I realize we're in an instructor's office. "From now on," he says as he swipes his access card and pulls open a metal locker, "you only wear what I give you."

He ignores my stunned look as he peels off Law's jacket, tossing it in the bottom of the locker and quickly replacing it with a new varsity jacket. His hands are quick and impersonal, but once he's zipped it up to my chin, he takes a step back and frowns. "You're too small."

"It's too big!" I fume. "And I want to wear Law's clothes, not yours." When his frown deepens, I sigh. "Let me give it back to him, at least. It's expensive."

But Manson slams the locker shut. "He's richer than shit. And I'm not giving him back something that smells like you just came all over my lap."

My mouth pops open in shock at his crude words, but he ignores me and holds out his hand. I stare at it, wondering if he expects me to strip off the rest of my clothes, too. "You come with me, Mercy, or I'll make him regret ever laying a finger on you. Don't think I won't do it."

"I believe you," I say through numb lips, but my anger is back, burning under my skin like a flame. He promised to keep my friends safe, but in the next breath, he's threatening them. "You're a bully who always gets what he wants, right?"

Instead of looking offended, he steps closer, his hand gripping me around the throat. It's nothing like the way Dryer held me, but the threat is there just the same. "You're right, I do. And if you push me, or try to run off back to your freaks, our deal is off. And I won't tell my father's men about you. I'll go straight to Van Ness. From what Carmen told me, her old man keeps a research lab prepped for treasures like you."

His fingers tighten an inch, but I glare up at him. "I'll go with you, but I won't ever heal you again. You can deal with Dr. Humphries or suffer through the pain for all I care."

He just gives me another of those lopsided grins, but then his hand falls away and he yanks the door open. Parker straightens from where he's leaning against the wall, but there's no sign of the others, and I snap, "Where's Law?"

"Rethinking his friendship circle," Parker quips, his eyes widening slightly at the murderous look on my face. "Chill out. He's fine. The Dean wanted to see him, and he had to go up to the admin building or risk having Witless come down here in person." I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him, but Parker is looking his friend over, and whistles through his teeth. "Well, praise the mother! You're looking a hell of a lot better, Captain."

"Like new," Manson replies, and they slap their hands together in what I'm guessing is a stupid Trap Team salute. "Tell the guys there's an extra weight training session tonight, no excuses. And put in an order for a full uniform in extra small. Plus, weekend gear and a bunch of lacy panties." He looks down at me with a cocked brow. "You got a favorite color, Omega?"

Parker chuckles as I grind my teeth, refusing to dignify the question with an answer. Manson shrugs and nudges me towards the door, the pair of alphas talking over my head as we head out of the stadium. "So, he's really a she?" Parker asks.

"Told you she was." There's a hint of gloating in Manson's voice. "I suspected during spin the bottle, but knew for sure when she caught Saxon's knife and healed herself."

"Yeah, but I still don't see it," Parker says dubiously, looking me over without a shred of shame. "Still just looks like a scrawny guy to me."

I'm tempted to flutter my lashes at him, only we're approaching a building I've never been inside before, and my heart sinks. It's painted a dark gray and looks like a small fortress with its narrow windows and heavy metal door. "What is this place?"

"The Trap Team quarters," Manson replies, heading up the stairs where another alpha is waiting in a cadet uniform, clearly guarding the entrance.

"We call it the den," Parker says with a proud smile, waving his hand in front of him. "Welcome to your new home, Omega."

"Forget it." I'm backing away, my gaze flicking from the West Wing behind me to the clump of woods in the distance. I'm not sure I can reach either before one of the alphas catches me, but I have to try.

"Don't run, Omega," Parker says quietly under his breath. "You'll only make him chase you."

But he's the last person I want advice from right now, and I spin away, digging my toes into the spongy lawn and sprinting towards the academic block. That burst of energy serves me well, and for a moment, I can't hear anything behind me. I dig deeper, pushing myself harder. I just need to get to the front door, because there's no way they'll tackle me in the hallway…

A startled cry leaves my lips as rough hands grab me under the arms, the world spinning away in a dizzying rush. I'm airborne, the sky a blur, and then Manson drops me over his shoulder, my chin bouncing off his back. I groan and try to drag a gulp of air into my battered lungs. But before I can catch my breath, Manson's hand comes down on my ass in a blistering slap.

Mother mercy!

Pain burns down into my bones before I can chase away the sting. I howl, kicking my feet so hard I bruise my toes on his ribs.

"Scream again, and I'll gag you," he growls, wrapping a tight arm across my thighs and striding back towards the Trap Team quarters. "It's bad enough I'm gonna have to carry you through the den without the guys seeing you sniveling like a runt."

"Then, don't!" I half-beg, half-snarl. "Just let me go!"

"Not happening." He strides up the stairs, pushing through the door into a narrow hallway. His boots thump over a concrete floor and then we're in a large living area. From this angle, I can't see much more than the side of a sofa, a gray tile floor, and a television unit. But the air is thick with alpha pheromones, and my heart races as I lose count of the scents swirling around me.

"Cutter's moving in with me," Manson announces in a hard voice, and way too many boots come into view as they gather around. "No one touches him, and you can spread the word he's under my protection now."

"Moving in?" a familiar voice rasps. "You mean into your room?"

I can feel Manson's muscles clench under me, his voice grinding out of his chest. "Got a problem with that, Logan?" I squirm, wanting to face the bully head-on, but Manson tightens his grip in warning. "If you've got something to say, spit it out."

There's a tense pause and then Logan says, "I just didn't think overnight guests were allowed in the den. Are we changing the rules, or is this a onetime thing?"

"Feeling left out, snookums?" Parker goads, and I lift my head to catch him laughing at the red-faced alpha. "Need a sleepover, so Manson can braid your hair, and you can talk about your crush?"

"Fuck you, Parker. I'm just saying there are rules. If we have to follow them, then the captain should, too."

"You're right. But Cutter's part of the team now," Manson snaps back, then rests a heavy hand on my ass. "And as captain, it's my job to remind him of that."

There's just enough cruelty in his voice to make the other alphas laugh, and then Manson is crossing the room and taking the stairs two at a time. They're carpeted in a dark gray weave, and the walls are painted white, but it's a lot more basic than most college buildings. "Your den doesn't look much better than Bleak House," I mumble, then instantly feel guilty for disparaging the only place on campus where I've felt safe and welcome.

"That's because it's a stronghold," Manson replies, opening a door and sliding me off his shoulder. "Reinforced walls, security doors, strategic windows. If the campus gets overrun, this will be the last civilian place to fall."

I make an unimpressed sound, but I don't want to think about that scenario, so I focus on my surroundings instead. There's a double bed, a study desk, and small dresser, and if not for the wall of weaponry in front of me, I could squint and think I was back in one of the twins' rooms. But instead of posters or artwork, Manson has three crossbows mounted on his wall, along with a dozen different shaped swords and knives. It looks more like an armory than a bedroom, and the thought of spending any time in here makes my stomach flip. "You think you can lock me up in here and then trot me out on game nights?"

"Who's going to stop me?" Pulling off his jacket and tank in one move, he turns to study himself in the mirror next to the dresser. Grabbing a bottle of water from his nightstand, he soaks his tank and starts scrubbing at the bloodstains on his face and arms. When his broad torso is blemish-free, he gives what I assume is a satisfied nod and focuses back on me. "Like I said, you stay on my turf."

I can think of a few guys who will hate that plan, but they've got big enough targets on their backs without the Trap Team captain going after them. "Someone is going to track me down eventually."

"Probably, but not before the season is done."

I watch as he tosses the bloody tank in a corner, then pulls on a fresh pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Everything bears the Trap Team emblem, and as I glance around his room, it's fairly obvious he lives and breathes the sport.

"At a school like this, you guys are gods." The words stick in my mouth, but it's the truth. Even on the ward, the soldiers and doctors used to talk about the Trap Team games, speculating whether Sentinel Academy will win another championship. "I get that there isn't a long line of people volunteering to lose fingers, but there has to be someone who wants to be a blade boy."

He smirks at me as he pulls on his jacket. "You're right. I could stand on the quad and get fifty volunteers in five minutes. But you're not here because of the team." I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs. "If you need me to spell it out for you, you're my free-use mercy. That means you're gonna kiss away every bruise, every cramp, and every strained muscle on my body." I'm still gaping at him as he opens his bedroom door, only pausing to nod towards his bed. "Grab a nap, Omega. Weight training is gonna be brutal, and you'll need all your strength to take care of me."