Page 372 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Am I finally dead?

Horror and pain fill me from head to toe.

How rude.

But unsurprising. When do I ever get to be at peace?

It is very odd, too—they were certainly not mine, those feelings. That was . . . Oh. I internally sigh. I really cannot keep up today. Or is it night? Hmmm . . . disgraceful, Ezla, truly.

“Love?”

Something is stroking my hair.

Oh . . . that feels nice.

Keep doing that, and I will not kill you, I promise whatever is causing that delightful sensation.

A flicker of amusement that is also not mine.

“There’s no need for death threats, Love. I’m perfectly happy to do this forever.”

My senses sharpen.

The smell of men. The buttery softness of silk. The looseness of my clothes and the hair I know should be in one of my favourite secure styles but which I can feel is unbound . . . the large hand that is running through it.

My lashes flutter open.

That cannot happen again. It was supposed to be a far more deadly snap that usually comes naturally to me.

I blink at the sight before me:

On my left, sitting with one leg folded beneath him on the huge onyx bed in our Bonded chambers, Cooper wears his usual frown but one hundred times deeper; his deep russet stare digs into me like he is attempting to pick apart my mind, and I internally roll my eyes. Beside him, Alby looks at me with those wide, worried gold-green-brown eyes of his, his ever-present blush faded slightly, as though he has seen a ghost, and something like . . . abhorrent concern flickers to life inside of me. At the foot of the bed, with my feet in his lap, is Tiger, and matching eyes to the shy boy and plump lips popped open give me the impression that he is in a mixture of shock and excitement about something I do not have the mental power to discern at this particular second. By my legs on my right side sits Tate, those paws-for-hands white-knuckled in his lap like he is for once questioning touching me.

I very much do not like that, and I will consider threatening to slice his balls off if he does not get over whatever is happening right now in his head.

Lastly, there is Scotty, the caregiver of the group he seems to believe I am the centre of. The heart of.

Unfortunately for him, I do not have a heart.

It does not escape my notice that I have begun to call them by their names; it first happened with Alby but subsequently started slipping out with the others, too. At this point, it seems I have woken up and my mind has decided it cannot take the added stress of trying to sort through what is appropriate to call these Evots when everything else is already a shitshow provoking a desire in me to tear my hair out. And my hair is lovely, unlike the mess on my face, so that is a big deal.

“Your hair is lovely, Ezzy, I agree!”

I pause, stare snapping back to Tiger and drilling into him. And that is when it hits me.

About ten business days later, Ezla, well done.

This is the most humiliating scene I have ever starred in.

“Get out of my head.”

“But it’s so fucking nice in here, Havoc, getting to hear all your thoughts.”

I slam my walls up.

Disgruntled groans sound out all around me.

“Why, Ezzy?!” Tiger whines, squeezing my feet—my bare feet, might I add.