Page 58 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Unless they would like to go through eighteen years of torture.

Actually, that is not a bad idea . . .

Redirecting my focus reluctantly from devising these exciting schemes, I take in the hyper dog:

He does have a nice symmetrical face that is a little more round and youthful than his brother’s, with his skin just a pinch more tan, too. His hair is lighter as well, closer to a vanilla colour streaked with subtle gold; those feathered waves are long enough to fall into his eyes and around his ears, and combined with the shine and the way the strands look butter-soft, it has me thinking he would be better suited for television advertisements rather than competing as a Player in a fatal event. He has got a bit more muscle than his brother, but he is not bulky—not like I might describe Player 4 as with the size of his muscles. I would not consider myself a petite woman, yet next to that one, I might as well be. Also, I notice 35 is a couple inches shorter than Player 38, around six foot two, so I guess he is closer to kneeling than him. If I were playing favourites, that might make me like him more.

As it is, I hate them all.

Even the ebony-haired one who seems to have a permanent flush on his otherwise-pale face, and wide hazel eyes which always appear startled or terrified.

I make it obvious my attention is on him and—yep, there it is: those features enhance even more, eyes almost popping out of his head as the tips of his ears colour and the red on his cheeks expands until it swallows him whole.

Hmmm . . .

I hate him.

Possibly a little less than the others, though . . .

“Can I worship your pretty cunt if I’m a good boy?”

I slice my penetrating gaze to Player 4, knowing he can feel it through my one-way visor.

His eyes darken even more than they already had been, and he steps closer as if my death stare was an invitation. “Keep looking at me, Havoc, baby. It makes my dick so fucking hard.”

My eyes narrow to slits despite the fact he cannot see them. But I have always been good at conveying my murderous thoughts even with a helmet concealing my every facial expression.

I do like the name Havoc, though.

It is unfortunate that I despise the man whose lips it came from.

An inch taller than the wild Gold brother, I once again have to look up to keep my line of sight on his face, taking in his cooler tone with a hint of beige. His grey eyes always seem to hold a hint of madness, a quiet intensity that is ready to become a raging inferno with hardly a moment’s notice, and above those sit thick dark brown brows, his left one slit and pierced with one hoop and a barbell at its subtle arch. I do quite like them.

But again, I do not like the individual they are on.

Looking at the last one for a brief moment, I take in the fact that he is the same height as Player 35, his skin only a couple shades darker than his, too. He is handsome, yet compared to the others, some may call him average.

But only if they could not see past the russet eyes, straight brows, and plump lips to the world of secrets beneath.

Secrets that seem to recognise mine, if just marginally.

I do not like that. Not at all.

I am viciously yanked from my thoughts when unwanted hands find my body, and I curse myself madly. How the fuck did I get lost in my thoughts? I do not do that.

It is these fucking men; they are trying to make me sick already. Is there a single man on this planet who is not a disease?

No matter, I simply will have to make them my puppets sooner rather than later.

It is dangerously silent around me as everyone takes in the two large hands that almost wrap around the entire length of my waist. The perpetrator himself stills, soundless too, as if he cannot quite believe he managed to get them there.

I cannot either.

He squeezes as if testing out the feel of it.

Then groans. “Fucking perfect, Havoc.”

My stomach revolts and— Was that a flutter? What the fuck does that mean? I am certainly not drawn to any of these oafs. No one can tempt me.