Page 56 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Scotty’s hand slams over his brother’s mouth.

My eyes have flared wide in alarm, and I’m frozen in place.

A tense pause ensues . . . before Ezla carries on with no inflection when she speaks, “You need to practice more with others who are not your brother. You must broaden your fighting style and skills, and you cannot do that if you stick to what you know. You need to study different opponents. As do you.” Her helmet shifts incrementally the older brother’s way.

“We’ve actually been trying that—”

“Not hard enough, Player,” Ezla repeats her earlier words to Scotty . . . with an unwelcome addition on the end.

“Player?” His brows shove together. “We’re your Bonded.”

“I think we have already established that I will never be calling you that.”

“But you’ll call me that, right?” Tate demands.

“No.”

“Havoc,” he growls, stepping up to her. With him a head taller, she has to look up to meet his gaze, yet she doesn’t look any less deadly.

“Player 4.”

He snarls, teeth gnashing like a wild animal’s. “No. Tate.”

She doesn’t reply before she spins on her heel, heading to the Simulation Hexagon, and the move is so abrupt that I struggle to process her next words:

“I am going to train you.”

20

EZLA

“WHAT?!” Player 35 exclaims in what I have quickly come to understand from my few interactions with him is his normal earth-shaking volume and glass-cracking pitch.

My eyes roll. Did he not understand? Has hearing his own voice so often damaged his eardrums to the point he cannot process sounds effectively? Or maybe he is just as I surprised as I was when I first had a change of heart and decided that killing these Players was actually not the best course of action.

I will admit, it took a moment for me to calm down following my breakdown after Game 1, but the more my mind cleared, the more I could think logically and not with the rage that had overtaken me, making me lose my cool in a way I despise—it makes my skin itch to even think about—I was able to think through everything with my usual intelligence and come to an unsurprising conclusion:

My father was determined to kill me during Game 1.

It is nothing short of laughable that anyone would think they can, but he has always been delusional. And to be fair to him, I did almost trip a few times with the pain splitting my skull open, leaving me so dizzy and nauseous it was a struggle to keep myself upright.

Bravo, Father.

He and the Players currently gawking at me have ruined everything: I had planned to stay in the Games until I reached age twenty-six, which with my skills would not have been difficult in the slightest, and then The Council would have to let me either finally win or simply leave. I did not mind as long as I got the fuck out of here.

Even though I would be sad to leave the Games behind. I enjoy them immensely.

In any case, it was a long shot, but it was the only plan I had.

Besides, during the The Bonding Games, other than having the time of my life slicing and dicing Evots and Exots alike as they deserve—just because we Exots are superior to those weak Evots, that does not mean I do not enjoy killing others with red Avri—I usually get a reprieve from my father since even more attention than usual is placed upon us, meaning he cannot try as much of his favourite bullshit with so many wandering eyes studying our every move like crazed acolytes.

But he tried to kill me, and instead I ended up a fucking Bonded.

Idiotic sperm donor.

If I were willing to be beaten and bruised by any more malicious men, I would have bonded years ago, but I only want and need myself these days.

I will never trust a man again.