Page 603 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

It does wonders for my ego.

And it annoyingly heats my blood up, too. These days, it is every. Damn. Time.

It makes my fingers twitch and itch for my Avri daggers.

“So, Vengeance? What’ve you got for us?” Then Cooper goes in for the kill, each word becoming more and more forceful: “The scar on your face. Explain what that’s about? And what was that about love being bad, hm? Better fucking yet, tell me why the actual fuck your thoughts just suggested you’d like to die?!”

The mood I did not know had lifted slightly drops through the floor, and I ball my hands on my knees, nails digging into my palms—until Scotty lowers himself to sit on my right and takes one gently, lacing his fingers through mine, sweet Alby doing the same more tentatively with my left from where he stands directly in front of me, revealing the crescents I have marked my skin with as he unfolds my fist. Tate smooths a thumb over them with a frown before they disappear in Alby’s hold, and the tension in me only ramps up higher.

Scowling, I debate throwing them all ten feet from me and smashing their skulls to smithereens, but nothing within me likes that idea. I hate it, in fact. And that realisation only makes my glare intensify.

“I do not need you to point out my imperfections,” I grind out, hands crushing the ones holding them. Not that Alby or Scotty seem to mind.

They all reel back.

“Imperfections?” Tate growls, intense stare narrowing, the piercings on his brow dipping with his frown. “There’s nothing imperfect about you—you’re flawless.”

“And that scar is hot as fuck!” Tiger pipes up, shifting closer to where Scotty stands so I can better see him as he shoves some golden-vanilla hair from his forehead. “Just like the rest of you!”

Nods all around, and Scotty rubs circles on the back of my hand as he says softly, “The only thing we don’t like about that slash is how you got it.” My grip squeezes tighter, but he shows no indication he even feels it; I know it must hurt, yet his thumb simply keeps smoothing around and around. “We don’t like that at all. We know it was bad—that much is obvious. And I think I can speak for us all when I say we want to dismember whoever the fuck did that to you.” His voice has darkened much by the end, and my other Bonded all dip their chins once more in unison.

My Bonded.

Fine. Whatever. It is easier to call them that anyway instead of thinking up other terms to avoid it constantly. No other reason.

“Hm.”

“No, no—none of that,” Cooper huffs and pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning my head his way, and I do thoroughly think through the pros and cons of sawing those fingers off with my teeth this time. It will be a new experience, but I am sure it would be enjoyable . . .

Except, yet again when I imagine hurting one of them, it makes my stomach curdle worse than rotten milk.

I do not know why I am now so against any harm being done to these men, but it is very problematic.

“Tell us, Vengeance. What happened? Why is it there at all when Avri should prevent a scar, not be used to make one? Or, just as good, could you tell us what the fuck happened in that training room?” The lines on Cooper’s scrunched forehead deepen and deepen with every new question. “And could you answer the damn question of whether you’re feeling okay now? We didn’t feel any pain through the bond when you had it open, but I know you’re bloody sneaky.”

Nostrils flaring, I consider my words carefully. Then I decide to indulge them, sure it will appease their curiosity enough for them to kindly fuck off with their interrogation after this: “That . . . is to do with my scar.”

Listening intently, five sets of brows shove inwards, and Cooper asks, “Your scar hurts you? Badly, too?”

I nod curtly.

“Fuck!” Tate bellows in a mixture of fury and realisation, an unsteady hand dragging though his dark hair before grabbing a harsh handful, and the other men jump. “I knew it! I knew you were hurting in Game 1! That’s why, isn’t it?!” he demands.

My lips purse. “Yes.”

“Fucking fuck!”

“Does it hurt all the time?” Scotty’s face is a mask of worry as his eyes intently study my right one and the scar running across it, as if he can uncover all its secrets if he only scrutinises it hard enough, so carefully guiding my face with his hand to see better. Irritatingly, it is a struggle not to turn away. There is no part of my appearance I am ashamed of other than that disgusting luminous slash.

“No.”

“Will you expand on that? When does it hurt?”

“When I disobey.”

My mouth slams shut with an audible clack of teeth.

Fuck, Ezla! Fuck, fuck, fuck! You imbecile!