Chapter 24 #6
Nothing detracts from the high of being by her side and experiencing the first taste of our life ahead.
Not Ardern’s wet blanket presence, not the stupidity of the other students openly gaping at us both, and not even the barrage of suspicion from the Draven TacTeam grunts.
Despite taking note of it all, my elation is untouched.
Right up until I walk my Bond back to her dorm room and actually take a moment to get a look at the place this time.
It’s a fucking hovel.
Excluding physical violence, I have never seen such a disgusting display of Bond abuse, and coming from the so-called good councilman.
The bed is tiny, the sharp points of mattress springs are clearly visible, and, aside from a small stack of neatly folded clothes, the room is barren. She has nothing.
“How the fuck did I not notice how bad this is this morning? Pack a bag, Oli. You're moving in with me.”
The sound she makes is like a nervous sob masquerading as a laugh. "I can't do that! This is where the Council put me, they're paying for it. I don't have any money or anything. They won't let me get a job."
Absolutely not.
I need to get her out of here. Right now. Shit, I need to burn this entire building to the ground for daring to inflict itself on my perfect Bond.
"Pack a bag. Looks like they haven't let you have anything here anyway, so it'll all fit in your duffle. You're coming with me now and I'll deal with the Council if they have questions. You're my Bond, I'll take care of you."
Her cheeks instantly flush with shame. "You don't need to do that, I can take care of myself. Well, I could if North would let me work. I'm kind of… bored sitting around here all day."
I refuse to allow myself to feel even a shred of rejection at her words because the misery rolling off of her has my blood boiling in my veins.
This is not a Central who doesn’t trust her Bond to take care of her, this is a girl who has been shamed by the power-drunk fucking asshole men who were supposed to protect her and honor her above all but are letting their own pride get in the way.
If her wellbeing, happiness, and life didn’t depend on their survival, I’d fucking kill them all.
Tucking a hand under her elbow, I guide her over to the abomination they’ve forced her to sleep on.
It’s almost impossible to hold back my impulsive need to throw her over my shoulder and get her out of this place, so I tell myself that if I’m reassuring her and being absolutely gentle with her while also physically moving her into action, it can’t be classed as a control tactic.
I almost believe myself, too.
"Pack. We can figure out how to get you a job later, once you're out of this shithole. It would be my honor to take care of you while you find your feet, Oli. Wouldn't you do the same for me?"
Her response is instant, unwavering, and everything I ever wanted to hear. "Well, of course, but the others will be pissed you're doing this and… I can’t bond with you. I can’t give you any reasons why either. This is a fucking mess.”
I scoff at her, but only because it’s clearly not the first time she’s had to place a boundary around Bonding, but I’m also absolutely sure I’m the first one she’s hated having to do it with.
I can feel the pull between us, the way she’s practically orbiting me, and no matter how much I crave her, this is enough for me…
… for now. Until she’s ready and she’s confident in not only our relationship but her own abilities to control her bond.
I don’t want to be Bonded at her expense.
I’m not my fucking father.
“We’ll figure out our Bonding when we’re ready, you don’t owe me a goddamn thing.
Oli, I need you to understand that I don’t give a fuck what they think.
I care about our Bond. I care about getting to know you and us making decisions together.
My place isn't swanky or anything, it’s just an apartment, but it's better than this. We can eat real food too, not the cafeteria crap we just had to choke down.”
It borders the line of being sneaky as hell, but I already know that food is a big deal to her and the idea of actual decent meals is enough to have her packing finally.
She’s protective and almost reverent about the last two sweaters she puts in the duffle, almost hesitant to put them on top of the rest of the clothes she shoved in without thought, and it’s clear they belong to one of the other Bonds.
It’s a sure sign of nesting.
Fuck.
If she’s already formed enough of a connection to any of them, we risk withdrawals when we leave. I need to know how bad it is before we run because severe withdrawal can kill or permanently disable Unbonded Centrals who are separated from their Bonds.
I’d hoped their cruel behavior and her isolation would stop the nesting from happening so far. I desperately want to know which one of them it is because while there isn’t exactly a preference, there are obvious ‘worst-case-senarios’ here.
Nox Draven would probably get on a flight to the other side of the world tonight if he thought it could inflict pain and torment on my Bond. The only perk to his rejection and complete withdrawal from her is that it makes it highly unlikely that they’re his.
They’re probably that sulking idiot Ardern’s.
I keep the irritation and frustration from my face as I take the bag from her, slinging it over my shoulder and taking note again of the way she fusses over it. Partly at my respectful treatment and partly about the contents of the bag—it doesn’t bode well for my plans to get out of this place.
When we step out of Draven’s torture cell, one of the girls from this morning is hovering around the hallway with her phone in her hand as though she’s reporting back to that arrogant asshole, and it’s honestly pathetic how easy it is to run her off.
I get distracted from gloating over it though because my Bond giggles under her breath, her hand tucking into mine without hesitation as she allows me to lead her out of this place.
“Come on, Sweetness, let’s get the fuck outta this shithole.”
I barely contain my fury as I get her into my car and over to my apartment.
Even after getting her bag stowed away and giving her a tour of the place, it’s clear she’s still nervous and embarrassed.
I keep up with the easy and effortless banter we’ve shared all day until she can relax back into it, making sure there’s no expectations or judgment ever thrown into the mix.
Honoring my Bond is easier than breathing to me, the tricky part is doing so while also making it clear that my respect should never be confused with a lack of interest. My intention is to build a full and fulfilling life with my Bond and that includes being Bonded.
But I’m not in a rush, not when it’s at her expense.
She studies for hours like her life depends on it.
I’d rather die than put effort into Draven’s class, or allow his petty digs to shame her into this, but when I make very unhappy grumblings about it, she makes it crystal clear to me that it’s spite driving her, not shame, so I drop it.
Instead, I find other ways to keep from distracting her and land on admiring her unabashedly while she’s splayed out on the floor in front of the couch.
I catalog each and every inch of her that’s on display, starting with her feet as they kick in the air, and working my way up from there.
I’m practically writhing with desperation and satisfaction, gloating over this Bond of mine who couldn’t possibly be any more perfect.
The others are only fooling themselves if they think they could have better.
I’m grinning at myself like an idiot by the time I reach my Bond’s hand where it rests against her open textbook.
She has tabs running down the edges and highlighted sections with color-coded notes jotted on Post-Its.
History 101 is notoriously the most mind-numbingly boring required class for any Gifted to graduate, but she’s taking it seriously, as though our lives depend on it.
It’s cute as fuck.
Her fingernails are perfectly shaped, natural and well-kept, but her knuckles are bruised and scraped up.
I have to remind my own bond that she’s being trained to defend herself, that no matter how hard I try, there’s every chance she’s going to be put in situations she’ll need to fight her way out of and being able to physically take someone down is a necessary skill for her to have.
Even Soul Renders need to throw a punch occasionally.
No matter how much I hate the thought of her fighting, I can’t let my arrogance get her killed.
I already know it’s my greatest weakness, and after months of using my father’s against him, I’m keenly aware of just how much damage can be done if some asshole with an inflated ego assumes they’re above reproach.
It’s a sobering reminder of how fragile this little bubble we’re building together really is.
By the time she’s doing more yawning than studying, she’s relaxed back into our dynamic properly again and it’s easy enough to coax her into my bed without her knee-jerk fear response at taking Bonding off the table.
She changes into her pajamas in the bathroom but lets me in after so we can brush our teeth side-by-side.
It’s domestic as shit, fun and flirty even as she snarks at me for my obvious disappointment in the paltry size of the bathroom.
It’s arrogant as hell of me, but I know exactly how low her expectations of her Bonds must be by how impressed she is by this place.
I’m also well aware of how that came to be.
As she climbs into the bed on the side I would usually take, and I allow myself another moment of taking her in, I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I’m still standing here in my jeans.
Fuck.
I didn’t think this far ahead and I don’t own pajamas. Sweatpants? Sure, but I’ll roast to death if I attempt to sleep in them, and even a shirt will probably be too much unless I cut the thermostat down an extra twenty degrees.
She’s already half asleep, bumping into the mattress as she yawns and fumbles around to pull the covers back. I don’t want to spook her after how long I had to convince her to share the bed in the first place, a reasonable concern for a Bond to have.
I murmur quietly, in a carefully nonchalant voice, "Is it cool with you if I sleep in just my boxers? It's too hot for a shirt.”
She only shrugs back to me, not hesitating for a second to slide between the sheets. "Whatever is comfortable for you."
Her eyes barely stay open long enough to send a quick text message, I assume to Sage because she’s not exactly friendly enough to anyone else.
She sets her phone down on the side table, murmuring a quiet ‘goodnight’ to me as she relaxes back against my pillows with a sigh drenched with relief.
My beautiful, perfect Bond is out cold before I even have the chance to reply, and satisfaction at providing for her is like a drug to me.
For months she’s told me about how hard it is to sleep in her dorm room, how uncomfortable and lonely she’s been, how much the other girls there dig under her skin.
I’ve gotten her away from all of that, fed her well, helped her with her assignments, and given her the best bed money can buy.
If you’d told fifteen-year-old Atlas Bassinger that this is what would send me to the dizzying heights of Bond fulfillment, I’d have laughed you out of the room.
Or punched you in the face, because surely food and a bed are basic needs and not something to gloat about.
Doesn’t make it any less the truth.
Rolling over to kill the lights, I quickly check my phone as I plug it in to charge and find a message from my mom waiting there, thanks to her relentlessness in finding my contact information.
I have a safe house prepared for you already. Bring the girl if you have to, but you need to leave immediately. The Dravens are monsters who will sacrifice you the moment you show them any weakness, Atlas. You cannot trust their kind.
The Dravens are only monsters to my mother because they’re on the opposite side of the divide. Death Dealers are the rarest form of Gifted and I’ve heard enough drunken rants in my lifetime to know that my parents are livid that they’re having to fight against not one but two of them.
They’ll both drop dead if Oli ever joins the fight.
Three Death Dealers not only born in the same generation but into the same Bond Group?
Fighting against the Resistance and their so-called noble cause?
Fuck, I wish I could be there when my father finds out…
if he finds out, that is. I’ll be doing everything in my power to get my Bond out of this hellhole long before that can happen.
The moment I figure out if she really is nesting, we’re gone and there isn’t a fucking thing that North Draven can do about it.