25. Jane

Practice ends up being a test of my stamina as I dash from one end of the Trapshot field to the other, collecting discarded knives and crossbow bolts. I spend the first ten minutes feeling like every pair of eyes is on my crotch, but the Trap Team is surprisingly professional now game night is mere hours away. They're a blur of black leather and gleaming steel, along with the sleek headgear they wear for outdoor practices and games. The mouthguard – a metal grill that looks disturbingly like feral fangs – is to protect them from stray weapons or flying elbows, both of which seem to be a regular part of the game, if practice is anything to go by.

While they grunt and pound their way through a barrage of drills, their instructor shows me the rack of replacement weapons in the team's dugout. "Don't worry about keeping track of who you're giving them to," he tells me as I eye the knives and crossbows. "That's the referee's job. You just make sure you have replacements with you at all times." He grabs me by the straps of my vest and starts fiddling with the buckles and pockets. "You can carry two knives at once, but never give them to the same player. They go here and here. If you collect a damaged knife, store it here," he taps another pocket. "And when you get back to the dugout, toss it in that box over there. The armory guys collect them at the end of the game."

"Doesn't sound too hard," I murmur, even though I'm still not sure about running with sharp objects, since it goes against just about every rule on the ward.

The instructor grunts. "That's the easy part. Now, the crossbows. Five bolts are stored in an auto-quiver on the bow, with an extra clip on their belts. That should be enough for your average game, but if there's a lot of action down in our target zone, the guys sometimes forget to keep count. That means they'll be looking for spare bolts in a hurry, so make sure you have a clip strapped to you at all times." He shows me the loop on my vest where I'm supposed to carry them. "And if their bow breaks, they tend to take it real personal. We can't make you carry a replacement one with you, since they weigh close to sixteen pounds, but if someone calls ‘cross', you better load up and run like the wind."

I gulp. "Got it, sir."

I'm not sure I do, but the instructor just grins. "I'm Coach Kelly to you, Cutter. You show me more of that can-do attitude, and I might just keep you on after Manson graduates."

I just give him a weak smile as we head back out to the field, and the rest of the practice flies by in a fog of "move your ass, Cutter," followed by hearty slaps on said ass when I deliver their replacement weapons. They're only practice ones – so mostly wood and rubber – but my arms are like noodles when Coach Kelly sends us back to the den to rest. Food is delivered from the dining hall on game night, but I'm too nervous to manage more than a couple of bites.

The ridiculousness of my situation is not lost on me. I am in possession of explosive military secrets, I've been threatened with death, exile, and torture… and I'm agonizing over a Trapshot game. My priorities are so screwed up, is it any wonder my stomach is tying itself in knots?

"Get up," Manson says, clicking his fingers under my nose. I blink, realizing most of the team has finished eating and drifted off. I try to summon the energy for another bite of the roast chicken on my plate, but Manson sets it aside, and wrapping my bicep in a firm hand, drags me into the pantry. It immediately brings back memories of the night we played spin the bottle in Bleak House, but he doesn't look like he's brought me in here to play games. "What is it, Mercy? You're twitching like you've got something in your panties."

I think of the plastic cup I spent all practice adjusting and rest my forehead against the nearest shelf with a groan. "The problem is I don't!" When his brows shoot up, I rub my face. "I mean, I'm going to get caught. There's no way I can pass for a boy when I'm on the field with a dozen alphas like you."

He shuffles his feet, looking perplexed. "Everyone knows you're not an alpha. They think you're a beta, and in your uniform, they can't smell you, anyway."

"But it could make the wrong people suspicious." I lower my voice, avoiding his eyes. "I mean, what if some of the men from my trial are there, like the brigadier? He might recognize me."

"He probably will be, since my father is on campus." He takes in my stricken expression and frowns. "But why would he suspect you? I take it you didn't look like this when you were a mercy."

"No, I had more boobs." When his gaze drops to my chest, I rush to add, "And hair! I didn't do this to myself, you know."

I must still sound pretty wounded, because his lips twitch. "No? I thought you just had a thing for crew cuts."

My eyes fly to his hair. It's thick and dark, more chestnut than Travis' inky black. He also has a kink at the front that's distracting, because I'm pretty sure it would be a kiss curl if it ever grew out. "I don't. I mean, I didn't choose to look like this. I woke up in the box and…" His brows dip over his eyes and I wave a hand. "It doesn't matter. And it's not as if I liked my hair before. It was thick and frizzy, like a mop."

Ugh. Why am I giving the captain of the Trapshot Team a monologue about my hair?

Manson must be thinking the same thing, because he smirks and rubs his hand over my scalp. "So, what you're trying to say, is that this is an improvement?"

I jerk my head away. "No! But a haircut and a uniform don't change the fact I'm still me."

He leans back against the shelf, giving me an exasperated look. "You know that people mostly see what you want them to see, right?" I give him a tentative nod, and he shrugs. "Then stop thinking like a girl and find your inner monster."

I blink at him. "You mean my Carmen Van Ness?"

His lips quirk. "Good point. I should probably amend that to say stop thinking like a mercy ." He folds his arms across his chest, his eyes boring into mine. "Think of tonight as war, just on a smaller scale. Your only objective is to help us beat the enemy. Keep that in mind, and no one will think you're anything but a blade boy."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You mean a runner. Ridge told me you just call me that to torture me."

"Ridge has a big mouth." He clicks his tongue, but then reaches out and tilts my chin up. "Truth is, I was impressed today, runt. You ran your heart out, and you barely fumbled a single pass. Just play like that tonight, and you'll do fine."

I know he's just saying that to keep me focused on the game, but it helps until we troop out onto the field. But under the hot stadium lights, with the silver dome cracked open to reveal the velvety night sky, I start to have an out-of-body experience. The stands are awash with thousands of fans, a sea of red and black with sprinkles of military green in the VIP seats. I don't know much about our blue-and-gold opponents, Knox Academy, except that we're bitter rivals, and their captain seems to hate Manson with the fire of a thousand suns. We line up along the center line, the captains at one end and the runners at the other. The players stomp their feet, their leather uniforms creaking, and even in the open air, the alpha aggression is thick enough to make me choke.

"Where did they find you?" the alpha opposite me asks, his sneer stretching the black warpaint on his cheeks into a hideous mask. He's wearing a uniform like mine, which is less padded than the rest of the team, and I realize he's a runner, too. He might tower over me, his chest hair pushing out of his tactical vest, but he's still a lot smaller than the other players. "Let me guess," he goes on, grabbing his protective cup through his pants. "One of them jizzed you into a sock and then wore you out here by mistake."

Ew! And way too descriptive to be an insult he thought up on the spot. "Did the big alphas write that on your hand, or are you sharing your trauma with me right now?" I point to his forehead, which is as thick as a tree branch. "I think you've still got a little sock fluff there."

Someone snorts beside me, and I turn to find the entire Trapshot Team grinning at me. " Burn , blade boy," the alpha next to me cackles, holding a meaty fist up to thump. When we're done, and my knuckles are throbbing, he turns to my opponent. "Don't choke on the toe jam, runt."

I should count that as a victory, but now I'm getting the thousand-sun glare, and not only from my opponent. All of Knox Academy seem to hate me, their shoulders thumping into mine as they peel off towards their dugout. I can feel my knees getting weak until Manson reaches me and runs his gloved hand over my bristly hair. "Way to find your inner monster, runt," he says, then gives my ass a thundering slap.

It propels me towards Coach, who gives me a thoughtful look as I try to ease the sting on my butt cheeks. "That was some top-level trash talk, Cutter, but don't forget where the real target is."

He points down the field at the bullseye, and I nod. "Right, Coach. I'll save the rest of my trash talk for your victory speech."

He just snorts and turns back to the game as the referee blows the whistle. Manson and his opponent slam into each other, muscles straining, and then knives are flashing all over the field. I cringe as the razor-sharp blades slice into their padding, fists thumping as they try to either maim or disarm each other. Parker disarms his opponent, earning a roar from the Sentinel fans. The line breaks, Parker charging towards the target as other Knox players try to close the gap.

It's a heaving, rolling wave of violence. I should be horrified, but it's so practiced it's like a dance, and it's impossible not to be dazzled by it. Parker's opponent has been rearmed, and they've switched places, an even bigger alpha stopping him a few feet from the target line. His new opponent is pushing him back with his overwhelming bulk, and I watch as the Sentinel players dig deeper, their line advancing in a flurry of flashing blades. Manson suddenly breaks through, his opponent's knife flying and narrowly missing his own foot. Instead of backing off, he throws himself at Manson, grabbing his vest and pounding a fist into his kidney. It's a low blow, but the referee waves it off and I watch Manson's knife hand twitch at the pain. I'm ready to spring forward and rearm him, but he hooks a foot around the Knox captain and brings him crashing to the ground. A roar goes up from the crowd and Manson leaps over him and crosses the target line, his crossbow swinging off his back in a perfect arc. The entire stadium holds its breath as his arm jerks and the bolt speeds towards the target. The thud it makes as it hits the bullseye is swallowed by the crowd, but I can see the satisfaction on his face as he turns and catches my eye. I can't help but pump my fist.

The referee confirms the ‘kill', earning us the first five points on the board, and I didn't even step a foot on the field.

" That's how you start a perfect game," Coach tells me, but the words are barely out of his mouth before another player on our team is cursing and clutching his wrist. His knife is on the ground, but as I leap forward to replace it, Coach hauls me back. "That's a game ender," he barks, waving a hand at the bench. "Henley, you're up."

The bleeding player runs towards us, cursing up a storm, and I reach for him out of habit.

"Out of the way, Cutter," Coach barks, and I stumble back, only to have him shove me towards the field. "Go rearm Daniels."

As I dodge between players, I try to block the bloody wrist from my mind, but my healing instincts are riding me hard. It's a deep cut and will require stitches, possibly surgery. And I'm seeing other injuries now, cuts and bruises blooming to life as the two teams hammer into each other. Manson's right: it's not so different to war, and this is just another battlefield.

I try to keep my instincts in check as I dash towards the waving alpha, my fingers fumbling with my vest strap. The knives are sheathed on my hip, so there's no way I can accidentally cut myself until it's in my hand. But I pull it too early, and the Knox Academy player in front of me knows it. He darts my way, grinning like a demon behind his face mask, and throws himself in my path. I try to dodge aside, but two hundred pounds of alpha muscle slams me into the ground. Grass and dirt fill my mouth, but it's the searing pain in my side that has me gasping in pain. I can feel the blade scrape against a rib, but then my power surges inside me, knitting skin and muscle back together before I've dragged in my next breath.

"Mercy!" It's the wrong word for a battle roar, but it tears from Manson as he hauls me up, eyes wild as he stares at the knife in my hand. "Are you cut? Where's the injury?"

There's no hiding the blood on the blade, but I quickly wipe it off on my thigh. "It's fine," I tell him, shaking my vest to free myself. I'm caked in dirt and my lungs ache, but I'm back in one piece. "Manson, I'm good . It was just a nick."

I try to remind him of my self-healing abilities with a nudge in his ribs, but he keeps holding me, eyes searching my uniform until he spies the rip in my vest. I'm not bleeding anymore, but his gaze goes as steely as the knife in my hand. He tugs me closer, our chests mashed together. "You need to stop? I can send you off."

I look around at the screaming fans, the waiting alphas, the moon and stars all gleaming down on us. "No, I want to play."

He gives me a last shake and sets me back on my feet. "Then go get checked over," he grinds out, pushing me towards the dugout. I hesitate, watching as he storms over to the player I was coming to rearm. "Drop your blade again, Daniels, and I'll make you eat the fucking thing."

Daniels gives him a wide-eyed look. "Yes, Cap. Sorry, Cap."

"Back to it!" The referee hollers, and the two teams glare at each other as they head back to the center line. "Off the field for blood check, runner!" He roars at me, and I run, my feet flying over the churned-up grass.

Coach grabs my vest as I reach him, studying my face. "You look alright to me," he grunts.

"I am. It was just a nick. Manson is overreacting."

Coach looks at me curiously. "That'd be a first. But go sit out for ten and I'll send Hardie in."

Another runner heads out as I flop on the bench next to Ridge. He's out because of his broken leg, but he gives me a friendly smile as we watch the action. Listening to the players' commentary is amusing, their trash-talk honed to an art form, until someone murmurs, "I thought Cap was going to do a Dryer on that Knox guy."

I lean forward, catching a fragment of their conversation. "A what?"

Ridge looks at me with a knowing smirk. "You didn't hear? Manson beat Felix Dryer into a pulp. No one knows why, but I'm thinking you might know something about it."

I just shake my head, but a hollow feeling is spreading through my belly. I squirm on the bench, rubbing my arms under my vest. All the bright lights and warpaint suddenly seem too stark, the easy violence in the air like an oily coating on my skin. When the ten minutes are up, I head back out onto the field, but I keep to the edges, avoiding the thick of the fighting as I rearm the players. A couple of them shoot me impatient looks, but I can feel Manson's gaze burning into me every time I step on the field.

We're up by ten points at halftime, and as we gather in the locker room, Manson marches over to me and grabs the nape of my neck. A few of the players grin as he marches me into a supply room, kicking the door shut behind him. "Are you hurt?"

I look at him, bewildered. "No. I said I took care of it."

"Then why are you playing like a scared little girl?" I narrow my eyes at him, but he just gives it back to me, twice as hard. "Hesitating out there will get someone killed."

"Like Dryer?" I shoot back before I can stop myself.

He tilts his head, looking confused. "You mean Felix? I didn't kill him. You told me he was harassing you, so I put a stop to it."

"I know." I rub my face, the warpaint on my cheeks gummy under my palm. "It's just… violence has a flavor, you know? I can taste it all around me out there, and I can't do anything to stop it." I pull a face. "I'm choking on it, Manson."

"That's easily fixed," he says, pulling me towards him by my bolt strap until our boot tips bump. "Breathe something else in."

I blink up at him. I've seen his eyes hooded with a lot of emotions, but never like this . "What do you mean? "

"Kiss me. Maybe I taste like violence, too, but that's not all I'm feeling." He leans down, his nose nudging mine. I stare at his lips, remembering the way they slid over mine. We're an inch apart when he adds, "But you'll owe me. Unlike you, I don't give kisses away for free."

I jerk back. "What?"

His lips curl, sweet cherries blooming around me. "Get used to the violence, Mercy. Suck it down and let it seep into your bones, because there's no way in fuck you're healing anyone on that field out there except me."

I blink at him, anger coiling in my stomach, and he grins, his eyes dancing. "There you go, little monster. Ready to go out there and win this game?"

I'm not sure if it's anger that fuels me, or the desire to wipe that smirk off Manson's lips, but I own the field. I charge the players, ducking under flying elbows at the last second, and sliding through trampled grass to pluck knives from between their boots. The Knox players still try to stomp me like a bug, but the few hits that land are healed before I pop back to my feet. I can see the frustration burning in their eyes, especially when Manson hits the bullseye twice more. By the time the referee calls the game, the gap is twenty-five points, and the stadium is rocking with red and black celebrations.

I'm swept up on the wave of victory, jostled and butt slapped all the way back to the locker room. Some of the players head straight to the showers, whooping all the way, but Coach Kelly jerks a finger at me. "You're coming to the party at the Honor Hall, Cutter. You earned it after the way you played."

I cast a concerned glance at Manson, who's scowling in my direction as he hovers in the doorway. "Thanks, Coach, but I'm kind of tired."

"Then wake the hell up. If I have to go rub shoulders with the Dean and the brass, then you do, too." He slaps my back, then frowns at Manson. "Why aren't you already on your way to see your father? You know he'll be on my ass if you're late."

"I just need a word," he replies, pointing in my direction. Coach huffs, but moves off, and Manson grabs my arm, his cherry scent sour in my nose. "Stay close to Parker and I'll come find you as soon as I can."

I squirm, pushing at his fingers. "I can't go to a party! What if the brigadier is there?"

"No one's interested in the blade boy. Just stay at the back of the team and you'll be fine until I get there." He scowls, his warpaint like warm tar under the sallow lights. "Remember, line of sight at all times, Mercy."

I open my mouth to protest, but with a quick brush of his hand over my bristly head, he leaves. I watch his broad back as he strides out of the locker room, still fully dressed. Why the urgency to see his father? Did someone recognize me, and the general wants to grill his son before he comes to arrest me?

My stomach clenches and I drag in a ragged breath. I thought I wanted to get away from Manson, but now that he's gone, I'm tempted to sneak back to his room in the den.

And then a warm, soft mouth is crashing down on mine.

"Hello, sweet lips."