Page 221 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

I should have known better.

Head tearing itself to shreds, jagged glass slashing at every exposed nerve cell, I shift my eyes over the Evots around me.

They find Tate, my beastly stalker who showed me what true, passionate lust was.

They move to Cooper, who forced me to flay myself open and let others in in the biggest risk I have ever taken.

Scotty, who demanded I let him take care of me, who had begun to convince me that maybe that care was not a bad thing like my father conditioned me to believe.

Followed by Tiger, who amused me, made something almost . . . tingly and bubbly slither through me any time he looked at me like I truly was the centre of his universe, or made a joke I could not help but find quietly amusing from how deplorably awful it was.

And finally, my eyes move to my sweet, shy Alby, who was the first to melt something within me, the only one who could dull my claws when they were in action.

I have . . . I feel . . .

My throat swells, closing up, and my eyes prick.

Unless I have no control over it, like in my nightmare hours before, I do not let tears fall. They do not come to me.

But now, a single, lonely droplet rolls down my cheek.

Leaning over, I shift some ebony hair from my shy boy’s forehead, and he makes a soft sound in his sleep. My heart . . . stutters?

My head tilts. Then I drop that head lower, lips parting as I press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Drawing back, I watch him for a moment, taking in those long black lashes which make the pale skin around them appear even fairer, interrupted only by that ever-present pink on his cheeks. Then I slowly move my gaze to the rest of my men, reaching out to trail my fingertips over my wild one’s thick blond locks.

Hmmm . . . they are so silky . . .

A fingertip curiously trails over the faint bump on the ridge of his nose. So handsome . . .

His brother catches my attention as he shifts, his hand clenching around the empty space where I once was, and my vision slits as his forehead creases like Cooper’s had. Eyeing that hand, I decide it is better to be safe than sorry.

I place mine in his.

Scotty’s frown almost immediately smooths out, and his long fingers curl around my offering.

I blink. I have not held a hand of my own accord before, not simply for the act of holding on to another. It is very strange.

And I am not yet sure if I like it or feel more inclined to chop the limb clinging to mine clean off.

Everything in me protests at the second option, and I scowl at my own betrayal.

On my other side, Cooper has settled and somehow looks both pissed and contented—I do agree with Tiger that he has a “resting man-bitch face”—and my free hand reaches out to run lightly from the delightful stubble on his jaw, over his neck, and down his torso to his happy trail, exposed from the silk sheets I had pulled on before falling asleep the second time around that have fallen to his hips with my sitting up.

He does piss me off the most, this one.

It should probably be cause for concern that it is something that only draws me into him these days. But I do so love his fire.

I cannot reach Tate properly while my sensible one still has a firm grip on me, so I gradually extract my hand from his, satisfied when he does not stir. Then I admire the way a dim white strip of energy catches the piercings on my beast’s brow, his musky scent drifting over to me. I reach out to touch—

Hissing, I pull back as another, more debilitating wave of pain slams into me.

Reality crashes back down on me as agony blurs my vision, and I keep that contained with everything in me as I shove myself off the bed without wasting another moment.

Yet I do spare just one before I leave, only to glance with internal . . . longing back at my men, although I know my face would not show it.

I have perfected the art of masking.