Page 302 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Player 29 crashes onto the floor of the room beside mine.

My brows lower.

I did not like that at all. Nor the way he winces, rolling onto his side and coughing out a wheezed breath. His sounds of pain are muffled through the taalk wall that separates us, but not enough to keep them from me when I have learned to be so attuned to all of my senses. Not enough to stop the slight . . . twist in my stomach.

I. Despise. Him.

Growling as he struggles to his feet, I whirl away from him.

Just in time for my opponent to come at me full force as they drop down into my room with a luminous green axe in their hand aiming right for my neck.

This is exactly what I mean—one of those men almost got me killed right then.

No matter how skilled I am, if I am not focused, I can lose my head just like any other Player.

A fact my father wishes were not so.

At the thought of that vile waste of space, I let out a vicious snarl, and one of my daggers flies from my hand with enough force to knock the stupid axe straight out of the Evot’s hand. I do not know his name, and I do not care. All I see is the large emerald ‘3’ on the neck of his suit, and I spin for momentum with a leg out to arc high, my boot meeting that number with a satisfying whack!, which paired with the man’s choked cry creates a beautiful melody to this glorious scene.

At least, it will be glorious when I am hearing more pained sounds and more hits connecting.

So I get to work.

He puts up a decent fight, but he is no match for me. No one is.

My father made sure of that.

I want his jaw to break.

So I make it happen with a lunge out of his way when he tries to slice me through with his second Avri axe, a gloved hand flicking out and smacking into the locking mechanism of his helmet before slamming his visor up without mercy. Then a twirl of my body and a crack! of my baton into his face as I throw my arm back gives me what I desired. He yells out, and that euphoric buzz fills my veins.

I want his arm disfigured.

So I bend myself backwards as he charges at me again, dodging his swinging arm and that chunky axe I hate that comes with it with so little effort it is laughable anyone would think to try such a move on me. But they all do anyway.

Next, with my advantageous position behind him, I grab his other unsuspecting arm in a flash. Yanking it down, his body unceremoniously flies backwards while the limb snaps on my knee at the elbow like a twig. He goes down like a sack of bricks, his scream topping me up with glee as I swiftly step back to avoid collision.

He has had pure horror in his eyes the entire time he has been in here despite his unrelenting attempts to take me down, but now I can tell his fate is really hitting him, and a malicious grin forms behind my visor as he looks up at me with wide eyes overcrowded with both terror and pleading.

As if I would ever offer mercy.

Furthermore, it is entirely insulting that he would rather us both die than me kill him. He evidently does not respect me as he should if he would not be honoured to die by my hand.

“P-please . . .” he whimpers.

I want blood to splash across the walls, painting them a beautiful red.

So I make it happen.

***

“Player 3: Eliminated.”

Walls dripping with my favourite colour, I effortlessly catch what little breath I wasted on the Player as I toss the last of his limbs aside, the arm flopping onto the mess of organs by the right wall with a squelch.

Hmm . . . that was not quite as regenerating as normal, although I enjoyed myself immensely.

Usually, I am wonderfully cleansed after these Games. Numb. And yet at the end of both so far this year, that has been far from the case.