Chapter 302. Rat Fight VI

Chapter 302: 302. Rat Fight VI

Maisie

Without his heavy body pinning me to the wall, my legs gave out.

I slid down the tiles, my wet dress tangling around my thighs as I hit the hard floor. The biting cold rushed in to fill the space he left, racking my body with shivers.

Mercer scrambled backward, putting as much distance between us he could. He hit the opposite wall, his chest heaving as he dragged in harsh, ragged breaths.

He was fighting it. I could see the black in his eyes fracturing. He was fighting himself, gripping his wet hair as if trying to rip his instinct, his Lycan right out of his own skull.

A strangled cry of rage and agony slipped him. I couldn’t tell which emotion belonged to him or his Lycan.

He took one look at my reddened wrists, at the smear of blood on my neck, and he shuddered, letting out a pained whine as he backed into the wall.

It was the look on his face that got me moving. I recognized it. Felt it on most nights when I dreamt of Lyon. He was drowning in guilt. He thought he’d hurt me. Again.

I pushed myself up onto my feet, closing the distance slowly. Any quicker and he’d bail on me. When I was close enough to touch him, I reached out with a trembling hand. "Mercer... it’s okay. I’m okay--" ℯ

"Get away from me," he snarled, recoiling as if my touch would burn him.

The fear in his voice lasted for a second before he forced it away, buried it so deep, and then twisted his beautiful face into a sneer of disgust.

His eyes were very green now. And I knew what was coming when he peered me down in that familiar, cruel manner.

"Look at you," he spat. "You haven’t changed. I hurt you and you crawl right after me like a filthy, wounded dog."

He didn’t mean it, I told myself. Mercer said shit he didn’t mean when he was shaken. I knew exactly what he was doing. For someone who tried to be so complicated, he was as easy to read.

He was just as terrified I was. I knew the hatred in his eyes were for himself , for the ugly words spilling out of him. He thought I deserved better, so he was building a wall of bricks and shoving my face into it with the belief that if he bled me just enough, I would be the one who walked away.

Because he couldn’t walk away from me.

Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt enough to take my breath away.

"Mercer, don’t do this," I whispered, ignoring the stupid hot tears falling down my cold cheeks. "I know you don’t mean that."

He laughed cruelly. "I don’t love you. I feel pity for you," he whispered, pulling himself up to his full height, looming over me. "Who wouldn’t? You’re pathetic. A liability, really. You reek of desperation. To be loved. To be needed. No one could ever want you."

A sob tore out of me. And my heart broke, because we both knew he was really talking about himself. I’d never seen anyone capable of harbouring so much hatred for themselves.

"Looking at you makes me sick with disgust," he hissed. "Leave. I’m never coming back--"

I leaned forward on my tiptoes and brought my arms around his neck and torso and yanked his head down to the hollow between my neck and shoulder in a tight, firm embrace.

He froze as my fingers dove up his neck, traveling into his long, matted hair, brushing our the knots from their silky length gently.

My fingers were shaking. "It wasn’t your fault," I whispered. "You are not her."

He inhaled sharply, his frame trembling. I felt the whisper of his fingers curl and uncurl by my waist as he struggled not to hold me back.

His nose dragged along the strands of my hair, and I knew he was breathing me in. Deeply. It was imperceptible, but his face turned to nuzzle my neck as I ran my fingers up and down his strong nape.

It lasted for two seconds. Two, long seconds when I felt I had in my arms the world again. Two seconds when I knew he felt peace, whatever sliver of it he could find. Two seconds when the world faded to black and it was just us two and it was more than enough.

But Mercer pulled away, my hand sliding from his neck down his shoulder to rest above his steady, strong heart.

He smiled down at me, his hand closing over my wrist.

I caught my reflection in his green eyes and I had never been more beautiful. The memory of him tracing the lines of my face filled me. I remembered the touch of his sensitive fingers following my jawline, running down my neck to follow the curves of my body.

I remembered his warmth, his laughy t and his eyes sparkling whenever I responded and he thought I had a fat mouth. I remembered the way he made me feel needed, appreciated for who and what I was. I remembered us being happy.

Mercer’s grip tightened and quicker than I could blink...

He snapped my wrist.

I gasped as pain cut up my arm like a jagged knife. But even more hurtful was my chest and the betrayal I felt as he shoved me away and snarled in a layered, thick voice.

"Get the fuck out before I aim for your neck instead."

He didn’t yell, but the vicious tone sank in deeper than he would’ve yelled, bringing back the sense of self preservation I’d abandoned by the door.

I tried. It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t bring him out of there if he didn’t want to be helped.

A weary hiccup escaped me, followed by a miserable sob, and I whirled, clutching my broken, hurting wrist and I turned my back on him.

And that hurt even more than my wrist. Or my heart. It felt like I was tearing my own heart out, and I broke into a run, lest I gave in and went back and begged him to come home with me.

Maybe he was right. He’d snapped my wrist and I was still thinking of how to help him. I really was pathetic.

I burst through the door and collided solidly with a wall of warm, rigid muscle.

Quinlan caught me by the shoulders. He was standing right outside the archway, his stiff posture and his ticked jaw telling me he’d heard everything.

His stormy blue eyes swept over my shivering frame, lingering on the tears on my cheeks and the bruises forming on my wrists. His eyes flared on the odd angle of my right wrist.

His eyes went dead and he began rolling up his sleeves. He was going to kill him.

"Quinn, please don’t--"

He moved me aside. "Stay here."

Oh God.

He slipped into the bathroom and the door swung shut behind him, cutting of the sound of running water.

The lock clicked.

"Quinlan!" I yelled, slamming my other wrist into the door when I heard the shattering of tiles and a pained grunt.

I stood there, frozen, hugging my hand to my chest as the cold bit into my damp skin, my breath catching on silent hiccups. I listened to the meaty smacks of bone colliding with bone. And my teeth sunk into my bottom lip hard enough to hurt as the seconds trickled into long minutes.

The door swung open a second later.

Quinlan stepped out, his expression completely blank, his breathing even. But as he reached up to adjust his cuffs, I saw the skin across his knuckles were severely split. There were speckles of blood on his shirt, none of which belonged to him.

Mercer hadn’t fought back.

I bit back another tired sob.

His hand trembled slightly as he flapped the water off his retrieved leather jacket. It was waterproof, and the water slid right off. He slipped it over my shoulder and rested his hand on the small of my back.

"Let’s go," he said.

****

I slept off at some point during the ride back in Quinlan’s car, my head resting against the window.

It’d been a long day and my body sought any kind of rest it could find.

I woke up to the heater on full blast and the chair set all the way back, it could have been a make shift bed. The smell of burger and fries made my stomach grumble. And I moaned as the sweet scent of caramel and vanilla and a hint of chocolate made my mouth water.

"Is that ice-cream?" I asked, straightening on my hands.

I winced. My wrist had healed, though it was still slightly sensitive.

Quinlan pulled his door shut and I noticed we were parked off the side of a Theodore’s drive through. The last time I’d been here, Lana was asking me to lick the wine off her boots. It seemed so far away now, it felt surreal.

Quinlan set down brown bag after brown bag of food and pastries that I was sure he bought with the money he’d got from gambling on Mercer.

He’d walked out from the den after cashing out an entire bucket’s worth of chips, warning angry looks from the other patrons. He was the only one who’d bet on Mercer.

He had never even been worried about Mercer in the first place, the prick.

He thrusted the bag of burger into my hands and I salivated at the delicious, cheesy warmth. Much as I hated my previous employer, he had the best burgers in the entire town. Better even than Corazon’s.

"Easy," he said when I began scarfing it down, moaning when I got a mouthful of crispy chips.

His eyes narrowed at the sound of my moan and he glanced ahead as he revved the engine, cheeks reddening. He was probably having filthy thoughts.

And then, he glared at the half eaten burger, like it had no right to get that sound out of me.

Territorial, beautiful prick, jealous of a damned burger.