Page 571 of The Bonding Games: Part 1

She does not answer.

39

COOPER

I feel like I’ve been hard since yesterday, and that’s even after my dick had a few sessions with my hand once we’d got back to our Bonded chambers.

Vengeance didn’t come back with us, which, of course, put Tate in a foul mood. Although it was clear he wasn’t the only one by the tense faces and hanging heads . . . and the fact I wanted to hurl something myself.

Anyway, HC is with us again now, but she’s not bloody acknowledging what happened in that dining room. I mean, she let Tate touch her. That’s huge, but she doesn’t seem to think so. And I’ll admit, I’ve jabbed at the bond quite a few times—and none too kindly—in my attempts to just see what the fuck she’s thinking. My temper is running short, and, like usual, Ezla isn’t giving any of us the time of day.

She can’t just . . . not care, right? It was good. Better than good. It was such a perfect moment, and from the wisps of emotions I’d caught slipping through from her to us when she’d been too overrun by pleasure to block us from her completely, I thought it might be the same for her too.

“Good. Player 29, you are up next.”

That’s another thing—not even Alby is getting the typical special treatment I’ve sometimes noticed, and yes, been extremely bitter over. I’m finding it harder and harder to not do a Tate and simply tell her she’s mine and to stop fucking running away.

Alby himself looks like a kicked puppy, and I really am a fully-fledged dickhead for a part of me being happy he’s suffering just like the rest of us.

Maybe I should ask Tate to beat the assholeishness out of me?

We’ve been taking turns showing Vengeance our talent with our Avri jets, preparing for Game 4, which is in just under two weeks now: the break between Games 3 and 4 is double the standard one week, the same as the gap between Games 1 and 2, like it’s some sort of gift, and the Halfway Ball is next Friday—the day of each week we’d usually be shoved into The Dome to battle the current remaining Players, which there’s now only twenty-two of including us. Honestly, I’d rather just get it the fuck over with. The Ball only provides the illusion of The Bonding Games being something desirable, luxurious. It attempts to placate us and bring us into a false sense of security—us and the rest of the world who are forced to watch on TV.

Only for the slaughtering to begin anew in week six.

Tate lands his jet after having his turn up in the air of the never-ending glossy black Air Training room, which mirrors the Ground one, the large dark green wings of his jet illuminating the taalk floor. “Did I do good, my Havoc?” he purrs as he demanifests his Avri and struts over.

“Enough.”

“Good enough?” he huffs. “I’d wipe the floor with our opponents' asses.”

As if he hadn’t spoken, Ezla’s once-again-helmeted head stares, unfeeling. “Player 29. Up.”

“I-I’m not great with the jets, Ezla. They’re . . . I find it really hard to manifest. And when I do, I’m not great at keeping it stable.”

“I do not care!” she barks, and a deathly silence descends. She’s never spoken to him like that. “I do not care! Just get in the air!”

Postures rigid, tense glances are exchanged throughout our group.

Something’s wrong.

It could merely be that she’s regretting her time with us in the hot tub, but it seems like more than that—no, I know it is.

“What happened, Vengeance?” My mouth runs away with me before I can stop it, and it doesn’t come out too politely, either. I’m too stressed with everything lately, and that’s not an excuse for my behaviour, simply the shitty truth.

Her composure is slipping fast, laboured puffs of air coming from her, the sound tinny due to her helmet. But she doesn’t bite. “Get in the air.”

“Tell me who’s hurting you!” I roar, completely losing my shit as I step right into her, grasping her upper arms mercilessly, the shaking of my limbs vibrating hers.

Everyone else is too stunned to move or speak.

“No one can hurt me!” she shouts back furiously, leaning into me so she’s right in my face, and I push my own helmet closer to hers so they’re almost touching, not about to give in to her intimidation tactics.

She doesn’t scare me.

My teeth gnash. “Stop fucking lying! Just let me kill them! I’ll fucking do it! Tell me, and I will get rid of them for you!”

“THERE IS NO ONE!” Shoving me backwards, the force has me stumbling, and Scotty grips my bicep to keep me upright, but I shrug him off viciously.