Greymoor Academy: I Accidentally Bonded With Four Lycan Royals!

Chapter 238: 238. Too Much Damage

Maisie

Quinlan stumbled, grabbing his jaw and stretching it like he wasn’t sure it was still attached to his face.

"You really want to do this here? Because you’re too much of a pussy to admit you wished you had fucked and marked her first? Oh, I forgot. Mommy dearest wouldn’t approve, would she now?"

Mercer lunged for Quinlan, who ducked and grabbed Mercer, hurling him across the hallway. Mercer crashed into the lockers, shattering the metal and the walls behind it, and the students scattered.

"Stop it," I said, but I might as well not have been there.

My mouth dried as I watched them. I’d seen them throw jabs at each other and fight like children over small things, but never in public. Not like this.

In the blink of an eye, Mercer was on his feet again, eyes black. "I’m the pussy? At least I didn’t spend nine months drowning at the bottom of any bottle I could find and snorting lines of shit to forget, only to crawl back to the same pussy that called you a whore’s son."

I froze. I did what?

Quinlan moved faster than I could track and be slammed Mercer into the locker so hard, the entire front row dented. "Shut your damned hole, rotting bastard."

"Stop!" I yelled when Mercer headbutted him. The crack of bone against bone made my stomach turn. Quinlan staggered, and Mercer drove a knee into his stomach hard enough to lift him off the ground.

They didn’t hear me, didn’t even see me.

Quinlan recovered and threw a punch that would have caved Mercer’s face in. Mercer caught it, twisted, and they collided again with a force that shook the floor.

I saw the next blow coming. Mercer’s fist drawn back, Quinlan’s claws already out and I threw myself between them.

My back hit Quinlan’s chest hard. My hands slammed against Mercer’s, fingers spreading over the front of his shirt as I tried to hold him back. For one second I was completely crushed between them as they continued to reach for each other around me. Through me.

The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful rush.

"Stop it," I pleaded, voice cracking. "Both of you. Please."

Mercer’s black eyes dropped to my face. Quinlan’s chest was heaving against my back. They were both shaking, their bodies burning hot like furnaces, and only then did I realize how cold I felt. How alone.

Whatever emotion Mercer found in my eyes made him pause. And then his sneered at me. "What do you care? The only thing you’ve ever cared about is yourself."

I swallowed thickly, fighting the sting in my eyes and the hurt squeezing around my heart. "You’re not the only one lost. Believe it or not, I lost everything, too."

He scoffed. "Touching words from a lying, forked tongue." He smacked my hands away from his chest like they disgusted him, and stalked down the hallway angrily.

I blinked back the tears that had gathered in my eyes at some point. And I turned to Quinlan.

His blue eyes were all-consuming and my stomach tightened at the sight of his split, bleeding lip.

I had no idea when I reached up to touch him. Or when my thumb swiped over the blood on the corner of his lower lip.

But he flinched, catching my wrist and ripping it off his face like the contact burned him. "Don’t touch me."

"Quinn—"

His nostrils flared, and the look he gave me was colder than anything I’d ever seen on his face. "I never would have touched you last night if I was in my right mind. I was high. I don’t even remember half of it. You could’ve been any of the many whores I pay to fuck. It meant nothing."

My bottom lip quivered.

He took one step closer. My Lycan made a soft, wounded sound in the back of my mind. "Let this be the last time you consider yourself important enough to come between us," he said softly. "You are a stranger. Know your place."

I blinked hard once, twice, trying to keep my face from falling. He didn’t wait for a response before his shoulder slammed into mine as he bent, grabbed his fallen bag and walked away.

My head hung and my finger curled into fists. The same pussy who called you a whore’s son.

The words kept echoing in my head and it all felt... too much. There was too much damage between all of us, wounds so deep I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to begin closing them. I still didn’t know the full extent of what the Queen had done, but every day seemed to reveal something new, something ghastly and disgusting. And somehow, she knew the right words to say to make it hurt. She knew all of their insecurities and was playing on them.

Whore’s son.

My throat tightened to the point of pain. I had never thought such a thing, never looked at him that way, not to speak of writing it in words. Gods above.

The weight of it settled all at once, heavy enough that my knees wanted to give. I wanted to find a dark corner, curl into myself, and cry until the pressure in my chest eased. Instead, I forced in a deep breath, picked up my bag and walked away from my ruined locker.

I was a fighter. I could do this. There was always a way out. Dad used to say that. I wished I had as much faith as he did in this world.

By the time I reached the classroom, it was already full. Regina and Jenny sat at the front. My usual seat between them was occupied by Juliette, who was giggling softly at something they were saying. The second I stepped into the doorway, conversation died. Dozens of eyes turned toward me.

Regina looked up first. Jenny followed. Stupidly, I envisioned something different. Like this was the part where they would smile at me warmly or I would cross and Jenny would wave at me and say, "Hey! I left you a seat."

But they both glanced away and continued their conversation with Juliette like I didn’t exist.

My fingers tightened around the straps of my bag until the leather bit into my skin.

I could survive being the scape goat. I could survive being hated by my mates. I’d had months to prepare myself for that. But Regina and Jenny had always been by my side, they’d always been the one safe place I had. My home. Their unfeeling gazes made it feel like another important piece of my soul had been cut out.

Swallowing, I stepped into the classroom.

My foot caught something thin and firm, and a shadow tipped over my head.

The reek hit me first. It was thick and coppery and rotten. Then the wet heavy slap of it poured over my head and shoulders.

Pig’s blood and entrails slid down my face, soaked my hair, ran under the collar of my sweater in warm, disgusting trails. I gagged hard, shoulders curling inward as laughter and gasps erupted from the classroom and the hallway behind me.

When we were in high school and someone was getting ostracized, it was tradition to isolate and debase them. This was one of the many ways the students often bullied others without getting punished, seeing as they could never pinpoint the culprit at the end of the day.

I stood frozen to the spot, dripping, shivering, the taste of the cold, stale blood on my lips, and something inside me finally caved when I heard the first whisper.

Oink.

Another roll of laughter echoed in the classroom.

My Lycan lurched so close to the surface, her anger stifling every pore in my body, craving one chance to turn the entire classroom into a mix of screams, blood and brain matter. I turned around before I could give into it and slammed into a wall of solid heat.

Jericho peered down at me.

He was in a suit, the set of his shoulders, the relaxed carriage of his arms at his side, and the case dangling from the left... It oozed sensual masculinity, and forgive me for being in the middle of a mental breakdown while still wanting to do something like yank him forward by his tie and licking his strong, tanned neck.

But his gaze remained cold, heavy, emotionless. Like I was standing in an open freezer under the scorching summer sun.

His eyes coasted down my body, leaving a trail of ice and fire in their wake before they narrowed with disapproval at the sight of me. His nostrils scrunched up at the rancid stench wafting off me.

It was only then that I noticed there was a woman with him.

She looked about four to five years older than me, and had a teacher’s badge across the front of her coat. S. Zaytsev, it read.

But I couldn’t have cared less for her name or who she was. She had stars in her brown eyes, a look of pure unrequited adoration in her gaze. Her hand was on the front of his coat and she was saying something to him in Russian, looking at where I’d gotten the stain of blood on him.

Her voice had way too much familiarity for my liking. Her hand was on the front of his coat.

Her. Hand. Was. On. His. Coat.

Something in my chest pulled tight and the hallways felt too narrow, the lights to bright. Every sound scraped against the inside of my skull and I took one step back, then another.

"Adams," he said, I didn’t know if it was a question or an acknowledgment. I just knew I hated it when he called me that. I started walking, forcing down deep breaths, forcing down my blood thirsty Lycan before she revealed the collar wasn’t doing shit to me.

I walked past the lockers, the laughing students, past everything.

Until I reached the bathroom, nearly wrenching it off its hinges, and shut myself in.

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