Page 69 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

“Huh. I didn’t know he was a poet.”

Cooper’s words break Alby out of his trance, and he sinks down in his seat, the red on his cheeks now reaching concerning shades.

Fucker. I was enjoying that.

Maybe I should ask Alby to write some poems about Havoc for me?

Or maybe I should string him up using his intestines for thinking about my girl how he does.

Hmmm . . . decisions, decisions . . .

Before I can decide on which option is calling to me the most, Scotty says solemnly, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Alby’s cheek dips in as he bites the inside of it, hesitating to respond. Then his shoulders droop, and he mumbles, “It felt like a secret. I mean . . . I doubt many people have heard her voice, so I wanted to respect that by not sharing anything about it with anyone. And also . . .” His voice drops so low I struggle to pick up his next words. “And also, I felt special knowing it was only me she’d chosen to speak to so intimately.”

The room goes soundless again.

Then I gesture at him with the knife in my hand, and his panicked gaze darts from it to my face. “I’ll ask you again . . . Why is my girl so interested in you?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Thunderstruck, the entire table reels back.

And we all look at Tiger, where none of his usual sunshine casts its rays over everyone in the vicinity, but instead a storm cloud rages. There’s no spark in his eyes, just a furious expression on his face that I didn’t even know he was capable of. “He doesn’t need to be interrogated! And fuck you, Tate! Ezla is our Bonded, not just yours! It’s her choice who can be with her—not yours! You’re not the only one who can pursue her! And I, for one, will not stop just because of your stupid fucking jealousy!”

Then he violently shoves away from the table, chair screeching across the floor. He marches down the hallway to his bedroom, fists clenched at his sides.

Scotty’s hard stare of reproach is louder than any words could be before he rises and follows his brother.

Cooper and Alby don’t move a muscle.

And I . . . For the first time ever, I think I might feel something like . . . guilt.

***

“I need you to spot me, Havoc, baby. Please.”

I can feel her unflinching expression behind her visor as she stands a few feet away with her arms crossed over her chest.

You look so hot, Havoc.

I try to push the words from my mind to hers, but, like always, they seem to meet a solid wall.

I huff.

I’ll get inside you one day, baby. In all the ways possible.

My back on one of the benches in the private training room we’ve claimed as ours, I bench-press 120 kg early in the morning, going through the personal fitness routine I’ve been doing for years, now with some minor tweaks from my girl. I pretend I’m not doing peachy and act as if the bar is about to fall on my neck and crush my windpipe.

She’s as unmoving as a statue and far more uncompromising.

“Havoc, please.” It comes out a whine, but I don’t give two shits—she should know how desperate I am for her. I’m not ashamed of it.

“Downplaying your talents will do you no favours, Player 4.”

Player. 4.

That’s it.