Page 312 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

His eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Fuckin’ freaky, that’s what it is,” Tater Tot’s gruff voice pitches in. “I saw how bad the gash was, and now there’s not even a scar.”

My hands turn into jazz ones. “Ta-da! It’s magic.”

“It’s science.”

“Okay, Poopers Coopers.”

His nose wrinkles. “Please never call me that again. Coops is fine.”

“Knew you always liked that one.”

Scotty sighs his infamous sigh, looking up to the obsidian ceiling like it’ll come down and help him babysit us. “Please eat. Please.”

The last “please” is softer, a hint of vulnerability in it that couldn’t be hidden, and I sober at once.

Whenever I was picked on for my ADHD at school or anything else happened to really affect either my mental or physical health, my brother was always my hero, and he still is. But after any incidents, he’s always even more protective than his default, worrying about me almost obsessively, needing to make sure each and every one of my basic needs are met. I never complain—I know how lucky I am to have someone who cares so much. And with how much he does for me, I can do this for him: simply make sure I take care of myself.

I quickly shove a spoonful of my protein bowl into my mouth.

Scotty relaxes.

When I’ve finished scarfing down my food and chugging my smoothie, not missing my brother’s piercing blue eyes checking my bowl to make sure not a speck’s left, I eagerly ask, “So how’s everyone doing with Ez/Ezzy/Wifey/DN/Deadly—”

“I don’t think you need to use every single one.” Coops rubs a hand over his growing stubble, and I wonder if he’s planning to go full mountain-man style anytime soon.

“Yeah, but I can’t decide,” I say while I copy him, feeling my smooth cheeks that Scotty likes to call “baby cheeks”, which, I’ll have you know, they’re not. They’re very manly. Which is why I’m wondering if our Bonded would like an even more manly look.

“What are you doing?” Tate scowls, but I know it’s just his confused face; he’s got a resting man-bitch face like Cooper.

“Trying to decide if Ez/Ezzy/Wif—”

“Please, not again,” Cooper groans.

My sweetie-pie bestie—who still doesn’t join in much with group conversations due to his nerves and anxiety that I try to help him with as much as I can—says in his quiet voice, “What were you saying?”

“Yes! Thanks, Bestie! I was just going to say that . . . Ezzy”—I decide on that one for now, promising myself I can use the others whenever I feel like it next— “might like facial hair. And I was wondering if I should try and grow some, even though I kind of struggle with that.”

They all stare.

“She doesn’t.”

My eyes narrow as I concentrate hard on scrutinising Tate’s expression. “Tater Tot, are you lying?”

He glowers, one of his favourite facial expressions. “Why would I lie?”

“Because you secretly want to grow a beard to impress Wifey, but you won’t tell us because you want to sabotage us?” I suggest.

His face darkens, and I can almost see the cracks of lightning in his thunderous gaze. “I would never do that to my Havoc. If I’m sharing her with you fuckfaces, you have to be at your best, and I don’t want you scratching up her pretty, soft skin with your spiky facial hair.”

My brows shoot up. That was true confirmation, the first we’ve gotten, although I’d suspected it was coming: despite his raging jealousy, the possessive beast is willing to share his obsession.

Not that I would’ve backed off if he hadn’t been . . .

“She might like some stubble,” Coops mutters under his breath almost petulantly.

“Awww, Coops, she’ll love your little prick, don’t you worry.”