Page 412 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

Whoopsies.

But it’s not just that that I see on her face . . . I could have sworn she looked at me for a brief moment, just a blip in time, with something softer in her mismatched gaze. And I’d like to think that maybe I’m more of a determining factor in her response than she’s let on.

And also, can I just say, wow. That’s the most I’ve heard her voice in one go.

I gape at my one true love with twinkling stars in my eyes.

Uhhh . . . hi? How did I get in here?

I whip my head to my bestie, eyes bugging out of it in a mirror image of his. Bestie?!

His jaw drops, and I reflect that back at him, too.

Are . . . are you in my head? he asks in confusion, dumbstruck.

Love, what’s going on?

Oh, fuck me, Havoc, it’s nice in your mind.

Well, this is handy, Vengeance. Learned a new skill?

I gawk, stilling completely with Ezzy in my arms, no longer dancing at all.

You gave me ideas, Tiger. I have simply opened my mind up to all of you at the same time; you are all in here together. Since my mind is processing all of your voices, so will you.

Holy fucking shit! I shriek.

Ugh, keep it down.

Coops, chill. There’s no volume in here.

I’m pretty sure there is, Tiger. Love, you’re a genius, Scotty tacks on the end.

I know.

Cooper snickers out loud, and Ez’s head snaps his way. She hisses down the bond, We will discuss this when we are back at the Bonded Chambers. I will stay the night. We must never tell anyone about this. Do you understand?

I start to nod—

No! she snaps. No reactions that eyes can detect. I will not risk anyone looking too closely and seeing we are all speaking together. We will discuss this later. It is time for dining now.

My stomach grumbles immediately in agreement.

Must be all that brain power I used.

Or the dancing, Cooper corrects, Ezzy clearly not having closed the connection yet.

That’s going to take some getting used to.

It’s gonna be so much fun.

***

“What the hell are these little things?” I look over at Ezzy, then back at the funny pink pile on one of the many gleaming plates in the centre of our circular white-clothed table in a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“They are called sinflae—fish bites. They are actually quite nice,” she replies, entirely uninterested as she sips some water from her champagne flute.

I’ve noticed she doesn’t typically drink much, but then again, none of us do. And when the occasion calls for it, we’re more concerned by the food. Other than Coops, maybe . . . and sometimes I’m very tempted by the glowing bubbly liquids—they look ravishing for consumption.