Page 140 of The Bonding Games: Part 2

My head snaps around.

Where is Joseph? In my need to aid Ezla with the immediate threat, I’d somehow forgotten that piece of crap. There’s so much going on, and he’s just completely disappeared.

Panting, Vengeance lets out a grunt and shoves herself to her feet when my eyes swing back to her.

I’m up with her in an instant, arms out to steady her as I take in the sheen of sweat on her forehead, dampening her tightly braided hair.

Using me like a bloody gymnastics bar, she accepts a vastly different kind of support from what I’d intended as she grabs my right arm to fling her body under it and into position to kick her feet out and send an approaching assailant soaring backwards. In my mind, I hear, Wriggling across the floor like the pathetic worm he is.

My head whips around again for a brief moment, and that familiar disgust and rage and need for vengeance roar up violently within me when I find the “all-powerful” Game Master doing just as my Bonded said—dragging himself across the bloodied taalk, he makes his way slowly towards the back row of black leather cinema seats like a coward.

My attention whizzes back to HC as another burst of searing pain makes it through the bond, the strongest one yet, and she says, I caught him off guard by managing to fight back. My dagger was able to catch his dick before he used our connection to debilitate me.

A growl rises up in my throat, and my scowl only deepens when she swats me away, refusing my help when I attempt to steady her once more. I can still feel her embarrassment among the ruckus within her, and I fucking hate that she’s feeling that on top of everything else right now.

How the hell can she handle so much and not break down?

“I do not—need your aid,” she pants out. “I am—perfectly fine.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Vengeance,” I grit out through my teeth as I lunge at one of the remaining Exots, the group of whom are now noticeably thinner as my brothers continue to chop them down. The metallic tang of blood is everywhere along with the faint hum and clash of Avri weapons, and I can only hope none of it is theirs. Thankfully, the brief glances I spare for my brothers to make sure they’re all okay show me they’re still up and moving about efficiently, Tiger and Alby back-to-back as they fend off an Exot each, while Tate and Scotty deal with their own separately.

Ezla pounces in time with me, and together, we have the next Exot cut down in under a second.

And she’s just springing at a new opponent in the next split second when she crashes to the ground instead, the scream that leaves her sounding like it’s tearing her throat apart.

“Vengeance!” I shout, slotting one baton back behind me before throwing my Avri sword right for the Exot she was heading for’s chest, only sparing enough time to make sure it sinks into his heart before I dive to the taalk floor and attempt to gather her in my arms.

“EZLA!”

When the shout from all her other Bonds echoes, I notice the two syllables bounce through an eerily silent room. Struggling for breath more from the panic over my Bonded’s well-being than the gruelling battle, I spare a quick study of our surroundings as my brothers rush over, finding none of our attackers left standing.

I don’t have time to assess my feelings on that fact, but I doubt there’d be much guilt, no matter what kind of person that makes me. I will never allow anything to get in the way of me and the woman I love, especially not when she’s in pain.

“I’m fine.” Except Ezla’s claim is bit out, almost a sob, something like a suppressed shout.

“No you’re bloody well not,” I throw back, still attempting to scoop her into my arms while Scotty’s knees crack against the taalk by her head. Her palms are pressed to that glossy surface when a drop of red splats onto it directly between them.

“Havoc!” Tate’s panicked cry rings out in time with Alby’s, “She’s bleeding!” as the two of them along with Tiger surround her as well.

Cupping her face in his gloved hands, armoury sticks slotted back on his shoulder blades, Scotty finally manages to angle her head up, and her attempts to pull away are worryingly weak as she blinks up at him like she’s finding it hard to focus her vision. Alarmed, his widened eyes track the blood steadily leaking from her nose.

And then that laugh. An insane, grating fucking laugh.

The sound of his voice heats my veins, my blood, my bone marrow to boiling. The sight of the crimson fluid streaming from not just Ezla’s nostrils, but her ears, too, a second later has my chest crushing itself into an ugly mess, one that leaves nothing but my hate and need for retribution behind.

Nostrils flaring, my body is thrumming with the strength of those feelings inside me as I rise to my feet and slowly turn around to face the man, the good-for-nothing monster, I hate more than anything. Never did I think it was possible to hold this much hate for anyone, and yet for this waste of space, it’s only grown and grown until I’m unable to comprehend how Ezla could have survived just the simple sight of him for eighteen years.

He’s still laughing like a lunatic as he cups his blood-soaked junk, lying on his back between the second-to-last and back rows of cinema seats as I yank my armoury stick from my back and storm towards him. My chest is heaving, my heart pumping vengeful, scathing-hot energy through my veins. This ends today. Right here. Right now.

With a buzzing hum, I manifest my curved Avri sword once more, my harsh, seething breaths puffing out into the tension-filled air.

Low curses sound out behind me as well as the unmistakable cadence of heavy footsteps, and I’m sure Ezla would be chewing me out in the most vicious ways if she could even form a single coherent thought right now, but she bloody can’t. My Bonded, my motherfucking everything, is reduced to nothing but a vessel of anguish right now because of the man writhing like a centipede on the floor before me.

He struggles to get to his feet, so fucking weak from a single blow, but my boot slams into his stomach with a solid thump that sends him crashing back down with a shout. The hideous, echoing bellow is followed by a pathetic yell as Tate seizes his ankle and yanks him out from between the two rows of seats.

Spittle flies as he tosses a load of delusion our way: “You are no good for her! I created her! She is what she is because of me! She needs me—”

His nose is unsurprisingly healed from the last time we were here, but I have him looking like a mirror image of his past self with another kick that connects with his face in a crack and crunch of bone. “She needs absolutely nothing from you,” I spit as I look down at him, on him, in pure disgust. “The only thing concerning you that could bring any kind of satisfaction to her is your suffering and death.”