Chapter 300. Rat Fight IV

Chapter 300: 300. Rat Fight IV

Maisie

Distracted, neither of us noticed the last fighter advancing on him until it was too late.

Mercer choked, the sound of ripping flesh teasing my ears. I saw razor sharp claws and heard a slash and Mercer roar of pain was guttural.

I heard the thin, reedy voice of the mercenary. "Delicate little thing, ain’t she?" he hissed. "I’ll keep her company once I’m done with you. Heard Lycan bitches fuck like they’ve got the heat in their blood."

A menacing growl escaped Quinlan behind me and Mercer whirled, backhanding the slight man so hard, his body crashed onto the blood sand.

My breath caught at the slashes running down his spine as he stalked the center of the pit where the fighter unrolled to his feet, nimble as a cat. Eight, long and deep gouges. One in particular going further past skin and bone, like the fighter had been aiming to rip his heart out.

Mercer was on him in an instant.

The fighter was swift, ducking a blow and coming out from under Mercer’s arm. But his face changed when he saw the black in Mercer’s eyes, the veins spreading across his temples.

He stumbled and my nails tightened against the links as the smell of his fear teased my nostrils.

If I could smell it, Mercer could. And there was nothing that enticed a Lycan lost in his rage than the smell of fear.

The fighter ducked and slipped away from Mercer five out of six times. He thought himself faster. But I’d trained long enough with Mercer to know when he was hunting. Toying with you. It was in his slow, predatory prowl. The way he tasted the air on his lips and ran his tongue along his fangs, turning in a circle as his eyes tracked every movement.

Mercer waited, giving the man a tingle of hope that he had gained ground. And when the man lunged for him, he swiped him out of the air like a bug with a hand around his neck.

The fighter kicked and fought, his eyes bulging.

He really should’ve kept his mouth shut.

Mercer’s lips peeled back from his teeth on words too low to catch and fighter screamed as Mercer slammed him into the ground.

He pulled back and repeated the action savagely. Over and over again, until the sand was covered in the fighter’s blood, until the man was a blood rag doll, unconscious or... dead.

I had stopped breathing at some point, and when Mercer turned to face the crowd, they all took a step back, a stunned, breathless hush falling over the hall.

It was a grim reminder that while we walked among the humans and wolves, beautiful and wrapped in designer suits, we were nothing like them.

The smell of fear was pungent around me. And someone whispered, "Fucking neanderthals," and Quinlan pulled me into him at the sudden hostile energy.

Someone called the fight and there was a buzz, before the entrance door to the cage fell open in front of me and Mercer stumbled out.

His feet dragged, unable to hold his own weight properly. Blood trailed behind him in a dark, thick line.

He was so close, I could almost taste his blood on my tongue. "Mercer," I breathed.

He walked right past me and Quinlan, his eyes blank and glassy once more, completely ignoring us as if we were ghosts. He lurched blindly down the narrow side corridor.

My chest trembled with uncontrollable sobs. I was furious. I was terrified. I was so utterly, deeply relieved, it escaped me in breathless, miserable hiccups.

I pushed past Quinlan and ran down the corridor after him, ignoring Quinlan’s warning to give him a moment. The warning rebounded over the noise in my head.

I tracked his scent and the little drops of blood into the dark, tiled archway. The heavy door swung open, revealing a cavernous dimly lit bathroom, smelling of bleach, hot steam and blood.

The sound of running water echoed off the damp concrete walls.

I walked in, my heart hammering against my throat, and found him in the farthest partition.

Mercer was hunched under the hot spray of a central shower head, his hands bracing against the white tiled wall.

His clothes were a ruined mess on the floor and the water cascading over his torn up back and knotted red hair was running bright, crimson red, pooling around his bare feet before draining into the floor.

"You shouldn’t be here," he growled, back still turned to me, his voice a thick, inhuman rumble. "Get. Out."

There was so much blood pouring from his wounds and running down the drain.

Panic overrode every instinct of self-preservation I had and I strode straight under the freezing spray, grabbing his massive, blood-soaked shoulder to force him around.

My eyes swept over his body, checking the deep gouges on his back and neck, his broken ribs, his torn shoulder, his face, his thighs, his back--

He snarled in displeasure, smacking my hands off him, but I touched him, needing to convince myself that he wasn’t dying.

It was a disaster, but his Lycan healing was already kicking in, knitting the deep flesh wounds closed beneath the water. He was going to live. He was fine.

The moment it sank in that he wasn’t going to bleed to death in front of me, a wave of hysterical rage replaced my worry and drowned my fear.

I pulled back my fist and punched in the face.

"You idiot!" I sobbed, my voice cracking.

"Why would you do this to yourself?!" I shrieked, slapping my fists into his shoulders and chest. "Do you think of anyone else but yourself?! Do you have any idea what you just put me through?! I can’t lose you--"

Mercer’s hand darted out like a striking viper. He caught my wrists and before I could draw in a single breath, my spine hit the freezing tile wall.

I gasped when my wrists met the wall above me and the water splashed down my hair, running down my neck and soaking my dress. Quinlan’s jacket was a dark puddle on the wet floor.