Page 413 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

“I’d advise you not to eat the dumplings, however. They are spicy enough to have your tongue burning for several hours.”

I eye the sinflae warily, unable to believe the two million fancy, hard-to-pronounce hors d’oeuvres on display everywhere I look, none of which I’ve ever heard of. It feels like I’m eating on another planet.

Then I process her last words. I suppress a laugh. “Spicy, badass Deadly Nightshade doesn’t like spice?”

The scary look she sends me tells me she’s considering maiming me, but I’m used to that cutie-potato expression by now—

“Try the dumpling, Tiger.”

Oh.

Oh no. I know that tone.

It means I fucked up. Big time.

Tate snickers and mutters something encouraging our Bonded to “give me the torture I deserve”.

I know my face morphs into the sheer terror that floods my insides. “Mercy, Ezzy! Please! I just thought it was ironic—”

“Pick. Up. A. Dumpling.”

My fingers snatch up the small white ball.

Heart pounding, I raise my eyes back up to Nightshade’s, pleading with her through them.

“Take a bite.”

I hesitate for just a moment.

Then I take the tiniest bite possible.

I spit it back out in an instant, eyes leaking more than a waterfall as it plops onto my plate with a wet slap. Sticking my scorched tongue out, I wave my hands about frantically, trying to cool both my face and mouth down. “HOLY FUCKING SHIT—” I wheeze through my attempts. “THAT’S NOT A DUMPLING! THAT’S LITERAL LAVA!”

My evil Bonded pouts mockingly, and my dick betrays me with a cheerful jerk. “Go ahead and finish that, Tiger,” she croons. “It is only one small bite, after all.”

I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat, shaking my head rapidly. “No, no!” I cough, blindly reaching for some water to save my poor throat before it’s permanently damaged, chugging a load. Half misses my mouth and spills down my chin before I slam the glass back down on the table. “I’m a good boy! I’M A GOOD WHORE!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

The clink of a glass is the only sound that ensues as all other in the ivory-and-gold dining room disappears.

Oopsies . . .

Peeking an eye open after having screwed them shut with all my might during my accidental announcement, I take in the scandalised faces of all the elite mid-to-elderly-aged guests.

A beat passes.

Then Tate guffaws, slapping the table hard enough to make everything on it rattle. Even my blood brother rubs a hand over his jaw in attempt to smooth out his expression, while Cooper is blatantly smirking.

The betrayal!

My bestie looks mortified, sunk so far down in his chair he might as well be under the table, cheeks flaming as much as mine still are from that bite of hellfire.

“Do not stare at my Bonded. They are for my eyes only.”

The guests’ heads snap away faster than sound travels, while ours do the same but end up in Ez’s direction, stunned.

Then Tate’s eyes darken with a salacious greed, and he murmurs, “Oh, Havoc, baby . . .” His hand moves under the table, and I have no doubt that he’s rubbing his dick right now. “You’ve made me so hard. That possessiveness is orgasmic.”

Slitted eyes shift to him from where they’d been keeping a lingering glare fixed on the other tables.