26. Jane

Luke's breath fills my lungs like warm cookies, and I feel the tingling rush of his camouflage power settle over me. The locker room grows hazy at the edges, and as our skin takes on an iridescent sheen, I sag back into his hold. "In the nick of time," I whisper, watching Parker stride over to his locker with his towel wrapped around his waist. "Let's get out of here before he notices I'm missing."

"Don't want to stay for the show?" Luke sniggers as Parker drops his towel and starts rummaging for his clothes.

"I thought you said they're sneaky powers, not pervy ones," I retort, poking him in his invisible ribs and tugging him out the door. I figure I have ten minutes before Parker starts searching the stadium for me, and I want to be safe in the library before he sounds the alarm.

"There's a back door up ahead," I tell Luke as we hurry down the empty corridor. We're in the bowels of the stadium, and once the locker room noise fades behind us, it's eerily quiet. "We can use Law's access card to get into the library. Should be empty on game night."

"Hold up," Luke says, grabbing my arm. "You want to go back? Now?"

I frown, concerned by the brittle light in his mismatched eyes. "We're not going to get a lot of chances. And it's not safe to keep the evidence in the library long-term. What if an alpha with a thing for flower-arranging comes along?" I smile, but he's chewing on his lip, his fingers twisting in his copper curls. It makes him look young and unsure, and I wonder again about his designation. He's usually bubbling over with alpha confidence, but now his gaze is glassy, his body language vulnerable. "I know it's scary, but everyone needs to know what our country did to Vistria. How else can we make them pay for their crimes?"

He squirms, his shoulders curling tighter. "There are bad people everywhere, Jane."

"You're right, but we have evidence against these ones."

When I reach out and take his hand, his fingers quickly thread through mine. His palm is warm and soft as I study his tattoos against his plain white t-shirt. They're a riot of color - feathers and flowers in rich blues and greens, sun dials and crescent moons in golds and silvers. But there are also thorns and spiders in ominous gray, and flames and skulls etched in sinister black ink. I wonder if he started out with the bright, happy tattoos and then the darker ones wormed their way in. "But we won't do anything risky, okay? We'll get the evidence together, see what kind of case we have, and then decide."

"I want to burn them to the ground," he says quietly, peeking at me through his lashes. They curl on his cheeks, too long and pretty for an alpha. "But these guys are dragons, Jane. You can't really fight fire with fire."

He's turned his arms over, and I can see circular marks on the soft skin above his elbows. Burn scars, like you'd get from the scalding tip of a cigar. I suck in a sharp breath. "Who did this to you, Luke?"

Turmoil flashes through his eyes, but he shakes his head, pressing his lips tight. A scent like scorched cookies rolls off him and I fight the urge to hug him. It's hard; my heart is battering the front of my ribcage, like a bird trying to fly into his arms. But a calmer, more rational part of me knows that not all forms of pain can be erased, even by a mercy. "You don't have to talk about it, but I won't let anyone else hurt you, Luke."

His lips quiver, a hint of mischief at their edges. "You gonna invite me into your misfit pack, Mercy?"

I snort at him, and we start walking down the corridor, but a grunt of pain has me stopping again. Ears straining, I track the sound towards a door with a maintenance plaque on it. Luke grips my shoulder in warning, but I push it open, peering around the dimly lit room. I get the vague impression of metal tables and cardboard boxes, but another smothered grunt lures me further in. The door to the next room – which reeks of alpha musk and pain - is cracked open, the space cramped but as bright as the stadium.

Even with the lights humming overhead, it takes me a moment to realize what I'm looking at .

Manson is on his knees, a man in a military uniform standing over him with a black baton raised like a sword. My heart thuds, and I rear back a step as he brings it down in a ruthless swing against Manson's collarbone.

It snaps, a sickening sound in the silence. All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears until a horrifying groan rips from Manson's chest. And then the soldier leans down, not a hint of remorse in his voice as he says, "The next time you fumble a shot, son, I'll break both your arms."

I open my mouth to yell, to curse, maybe to spit poison at the man with five stars on his shoulder. But Luke clamps a hand over my mouth, dragging me away from the room. I try to fight him, but sinewy muscle squeezes me tighter as he backs towards the door. When we reach the corridor, I whirl on him, teeth bared, but he presses me back against the wall. His face swims in front of my eyes as he strokes his fingers down my cheek. "Shh, shh, sweet girl. It's okay. Don't cry."

"But that's his father," I pant, a tear squeezing from the corner of my eye. It's hot against my skin, and I realize I'm shaking with anger. "We have to help him!"

Because I know Manson won't help himself. He was all pain and no resistance, even though he's younger, bigger, stronger… My stomach rolls with nausea, because I've seen what happens next. That first day I healed him, he'd taken a beating just like this one. I dash away another angry tear, but I can't banish the memory of bone sticking through skin, his eye so swollen he couldn't see through it.

"You interrupt that," Luke tells me, his arms now caging me against the wall, "and we're both dead. Think , Jane. I know you care about him, but that's his fight."

I gape at him. "I'm a mercy, Luke. I can't just see that and then walk away!"

"But that's exactly what we have to do." His gaze is as brittle as usual, but it seems to soften an inch as he takes in my pale face. "You're shaking. It's shock."

"And seeing a respected general beating his son with a baton doesn't shock you?"

Luke sighs, resting his head against his arm. "Nothing shocks me about those assholes. He abuses his son over some dumb game? The guy probably also drowns bags of kittens for fun. And it looks like Manson knows that better than anyone."

"That doesn't mean we can just leave." He tightens his lips, but I press a hand to his cheek. "Luke, I have to help him."

He tilts his head, the tiniest pressure against my palm, then huffs out a breath and pushes off the wall. "Fine. You go save your boy, but I'm not hanging around to watch. I'll head to the library and grab the documents. Give me your bag and key." I take Law's access card from my chest binder and hand it over, ignoring the way he ogles the tops of my breasts. His cheeks are pink, his eyes glittering as he swings my backpack over his shoulder. The shimmer on his arms reminds me of my camouflaged state. "Won't I be stuck like this until you kiss me again?"

He bites his lip and gives me a coy look. "I might have lied about that second kiss. It should wear off in an hour."

I shake my head at him. "Luke!"

He laughs, a softer version of his hooting cackle. "Be careful, sweet lips."

I watch him jog down the corridor, so light on his feet I can barely hear him go. As he disappears around a corner, I push off the wall and tiptoe back into the dark room. I'm right in thinking it's used for maintenance, because there's a metal bench against the wall, covered in tools. I look at the hammers and screws, my fingers brushing over a heavy wrench before I find what I'm looking for. Wrapping my fist around the broken shard of metal, I take a deep breath and then creep back towards Manson and his father.

General Patrick Levi Manson, Commander of the Alpha Elite Corps.

I remember his picture from the honor hall in the library.

An older version of his son with the same cold eyes and thin mouth, only I no longer think of Manson like that. In fact, I can barely see a single feature they share. They're night and day. Shadow and light.

Until I stick the end of the broken crossbow bolt in General Manson's back, and his face seizes with pain.

Yes, now he looks like his son.

"Fuck!" he roars, the baton falling from his hand as his spine bows in pain. There are plenty of juicy nerve endings in that region. So many, in fact, they have a name. Cauda equina , or horse's tail, with roots that power the legs, bowels, and sexual organs. A little to the left and I'd pierce the protective membrane around the spinal cord. A little deeper, and he might never be able to use his dick again. "Mercy!" he pants, rigid with agony. "Help me!"

"What is it?" Manson asks, his voice so hollow it makes me want to stick his father again .

"My back! It hurts!"

"Did you pull a muscle? Do you need to sit down?"

I gape at the concern in Manson's voice, especially given his lip is split in half, his teeth laced with blood.

"I… don't know. It… it feels like a tear."

I'm still gripping the bolt, more than ready to use it again if the general decides to take his pain out on his son. But he looks too frightened to resume the beating, and a malicious smile breaks across my face as he takes a tentative step back towards the door.

"Get me my club."

Manson gets stiffly to his feet, his left arm hanging oddly from his broken collarbone. But he doesn't so much as wince as he shuffles over and picks up the baton. I watch his face as he gives it to his father, but even though he's a couple of inches taller, he doesn't lift his gaze past the other alpha's five stars.

"Wait here," the general says as he limps towards the door, his empty hand curled protectively over his back. "Humphries will have to see me first, but then I'll send him down here to patch you up."

No damn wonder Manson doesn't like the head of emergency medicine touching him. If he cleans up the general's handiwork, then he's complicit in the abuse, because there's no way a doctor can't read the evidence beaten into his body.

But he stands quietly until his father shuffles out of the room, and then slumps into a chair, his breath punching out of him in a half-sob. His hands are fisted on his knees, his back so ramrod straight I can taste his pain from across the room.

"Manson," I whisper, shoving the crossbow bolt into my vest and almost flying to his side. I can't resist cupping his swollen face, my mouth filling with acid as I take in his fractured cheekbone and bloody scalp.

He looks up at me through a fog of agony. "Jane?"

It's the voice of a lost little boy, and I grit my teeth, anger pulsing through my veins. "Ssh. It's okay. I'm going to make you better."

"But how are you here?" He blinks, his lashes damp as he searches for me. "Where are you? Are my eyes broken?"

"No, they're fine," I tell him softly, edging between his knees. "You're just in shock. But I'm going to fix it, okay?"

A sound rumbles out of him, but his hands clamp down on my hips. "Not here. Humphries will catch you."

I picture myself using the bolt again, this time on the doctor who's hidden the general's abuse, and it takes a while to blink the violent image away. "Your collarbone is broken. Every step will hurt."

"I can take it," he replies, trying to push himself to his feet. "My legs are fine."

Because his father makes him kneel while he beats him, protecting him from the waist down.

"Sit down, Alpha," I order, and the steel in my voice, honed on the ward, has him obeying without another word. "I'm going to rest on your lap. Is that okay?"

He hums, already reaching for me and drawing me down across his thighs. He's pale from pain, but his scent is the musk of an alpha and I bite my lip. I'm careful not to brush his broken torso, but his brow furrows as he runs his good hand from my waist up over my vest. When he reaches my neck, he wraps it gently around my throat, leaning in to brush his nose against my temple. I hold still, half in shock, half afraid to move and hurt him worse. "You smell like you, and sound like you. But what is this?" He plucks at a random strap on my vest. "An invisibility cloak?"

The crooked smile on his face pinches my heart. I want to be honest with him, but I can't expose Luke. As vulnerable as he's being right now, I'm still not sure where Manson's loyalties lie, and Luke has taken a chance by sharing his secrets with me. "Camouflage," I reply, and then fib, "It's a mercy thing."

His brows shoot to his hairline, but he relaxes under me. "Poisoned kisses and stealth skin? How come they haven't turned you into weapons yet?"

He says it almost whimsically, but his words send a shudder through me. I can only guess what the military has done to Luke, but I know for a fact that Van Ness wanted to experiment on my mercy gifts. "They have to catch us first," I mutter.

He gives a soft chuckle, but then tips his head forward, resting it in the hollow of my neck. "Is it okay if I close my eyes for a bit?"

His breath feathers across my throat, making my skin tingle, and I take a moment to check myself. The urge to heal him is at the forefront of my mind, but there's something else twisting up inside me. I can feel the well of my power, deep and eager to be used, but it's as if some of it has already slipped through my ribcage and coiled around my heart, urging it to beat faster.

I lick my lips, my thoughts all tangled together.

Why do I feel this way about him ?

This is Manson, the guy who put me on my knees, then blackmailed me to help him. Is it just pity I'm feeling, because I've seen what his father does to him? I'm always protective of my patients, but I can feel the same emotions stirring inside me as when Avery was hurt. The need to shield him from the world, even though he's sitting here in literal armor.

"You can keep your eyes closed, but I need to heal you, Alpha."

He hums again, lifting his head so his dark eyes burn into mine. "You think I can't see you, Mercy? I knew you were trouble from that first moment in the pantry. Why else did you have all the freaks wrapped around your finger?"

"Don't call them that."

He shrugs with his one good shoulder. "It's sounding less like an insult every time I say it. I guess that's because I know how you feel about them." He tips his head back an inch, searching for me with his one good eye. "How does one become a freak, exactly?"

He knows as well as I do, but I don't think he's asking for me to rehash my last military history class.

"We should just focus on patching you back together."

He winces a little. "Yeah, I guess being a freak is better than being a coward."

I tilt his chin up, hating the sour tinge to his scent. "You're not a coward for what your father does to you, Manson."

He lifts a hand between us, wincing at the tug on his collarbone. "Just leave the eye and the lip," he tells me. "Can't have Humphries getting the credit for working miracles."

I grimace, but carefully press my lips to his damaged ones. He tastes like blood and agony, but one sweep of his tongue against mine and I moan as wild cherries burst in my mouth.

I suck the flavor down as Manson deepens the kiss. The fluorescent lights and musty air of the storage room fade away as his hand drops to my hip, his fingers curling around my waist. I'm balanced almost on his knees, trying to keep a semblance of distance between us, but he groans as he tugs me closer. I feel his thighs clench, his hand sliding across my spine to rest on the curve above my ass. Even with the bulky uniforms between us, I can feel little bonfires of heat spark to life. "You taste so good, Mercy," he mutters, licking deeper into my mouth. "So sweet, like vanilla cookies. I could get addicted to this."

I know the feeling, and it makes my heart stutter to admit it. He's moving easily now, and something tells me it's too much, too fast. I can't have healed him that quickly, not when I've barely even dipped into my power. I try to focus on the well inside me, but it's broken free of its cage, flowing into Manson without restraint. My head spins as I realize he's whole again, and yet I barely feel like I've started healing him. Am I stronger, or am I somehow in tune with Manson?

"I want more," he murmurs against my mouth, rocking his hips and making my thighs clench. "Not healing stuff. I want you like this for real. Tell me you want me, Jane."

The words burn on my tongue, the kind of confession no mercy should make. But he seems to read the answer in my body, which is arching into his. We're panting like we're running a marathon, the little sparks of pain as he squeezes me gone before I can soothe them away. The blood pounds in my ears, my skin so hot it feels like the air around us is about to catch fire.

It's attraction. Just crazy, off-the-charts heat.

"But not like this," he finally grunts, easing me back. "Not when Humphries is about to walk in. And not until I can look you in the eyes."

It's the reminder I need to snap back into myself, and I scramble off his lap. He grunts again, his hands clenching like he's tempted to pull me back. But he can't see me, and that's suddenly a relief, because I don't want him reading the turmoil in my face. I don't want him looking in my eyes and knowing that I want him like that, too.

"I didn't mind doing it this time," I tell him carefully, which is an understatement based on the way I reacted to him, but I need him to deal with this injury at the source. "But you have to make it stop, Manson. Your father's not fixing you or toughening you up; he's hurting you. And I can't be there all the time."

I expect him to drop his shutters down, to try to push me away, but he just stares at his hands. "It didn't start out like that," he says quietly. "He called it corrections. My brother died from a crappy heart and my dad didn't want the same thing happening to me. He told me he was toughening me up, making me the best alpha I could be. At first it was just a spanking if I cussed, or a ruler across my palms if I talked back. But then it was because I didn't ace a test, or because I fumbled a shot…" He sucks in a breath, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter so much now, though. Not when I have you to kiss me better."

I pause, wondering if he really believes that. Because abuse like he's suffering – that started when he was a child, from the sounds of it – always matters. His father has done more than leave bruises and welts on his body. He's broken his trust, and that's something not even the strongest mercy can heal.

"You should go to the party," I tell him as he climbs to his feet, rotating his shoulder and shaking out his hands. I left the bruises around his eye and cheek, but I healed his lip, because how could I kiss him and leave him in pain? "I can't go - for obvious reasons."

He suddenly stands up straighter, his gaze hardening. "And you're not coming back."

It doesn't sound like a question, so I take the broken bolt from my vest and lay it on the chair. The second I let go of it, it winks back into sight, and his brows go up. "This is what I used on your father. Just minor nerve pain his doctor should be able to fix. But I want you to keep that, and the next time he criticizes you for missing a shot or not acing a test, maybe show it to him."

Manson's lips quirk, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. "You're a badass, Mercy."

"Just don't let him hurt you like that, and you won't need a free-use mercy."

"And if I told you I don't need you for just that? If what I said during that kiss was me asking for more?"

I try to imagine it. Me giving him more. Working out why the line between healing and kissing blurs with him. And maybe even finding a place for him in my heart with the other guys.

The only word I can think of is pack , and he's made it clear that's not something worth fighting for.

"I'd tell you the Bleak House guys need me more."