Page 529 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

How insulting to my intelligence.

I simply prefer to call him and the other four “Players” because that is all they are. Nothing else. And that is all they will ever be.

His pain fades to the background the longer he speaks to me, all of him focused on me, just like it should be without fail. His already-splotchy cheeks deepen in colour, and his chest rises and falls faster as his breathing escalates.

You’re covered in blood, he tells me. I think he may be in shock.

I know.

His wide eyes take in every inch of me before roaming around the room containing me. And the remains of my opponent. Then they grow even larger with what can only be described as fascinated horror.

Do you like my artwork?

The ridge of his throat bobs, lips opening and closing like his mouth cannot form words, before he realises it does not need to. It’s . . . ummmmm . . .

I raise a brow even though he cannot see it, wondering where he is going with this.

Uhhhhh . . . definitely . . . you. Very, uh . . . creative.

Hmm . . . if I were doing a points system for my puppets, he would be in the lead now.

My eyes flick behind him to briefly scan over Player 25, dead on the floor with a hole in her heart where Player 29’s Avri dagger must have pierced.

Clean and efficient. I can work with that.

Well done.

His gasp is so loud at my rare praise I can almost hear it through the thick wall between us, even over the muffled raucous din of the crowd in the stands outside and the yells and screams of the Players still fighting in the surrounding taalk rooms.

I . . .

Do not look at her, I snap when he starts to turn his head the girl’s way. Because it makes him weak to feel guilty and upset about his first kill. So typical of an Evot. So pathetic.

Not for any other reason.

His head swings back to me. Sorry!

Good boy.

I feel him melt through the bond while fire licks at my bones to mimic the arousal my words also bring him.

Fine. I will admit that feeling their desperate need for me can be an ego boost, but that is all.

You . . . you’re proud of me? I did good? There is no mistaking the vulnerability in his words.

I pause to think about my response before realising there is no need to lie. It does not mean anything other than what it is: I am proud of him for becoming such a good puppet.

I am.

I didn’t want to do it . . .

My mind works. What am I meant to do here? Comfort him?

I cringe.

No, thank you.

I give him the facts: You had to, or you would be dead. The only way you will have a life after this is by taking others’. It is either you or them, and if your opponent dies, they clearly did not want to live very much.