20
EZLA
My eyes roll. Did he not understand? Has hearing his own voice so often damaged his eardrums to the point he cannot process sounds effectively?
Or maybe he is just as I surprised as I was when I first had a change of heart and decided that killing these Players was actually not the best course of action.
It is nothing short of laughable that anyone would think they can, but he has always been delusional. And to be fair to him, I did almost trip a few times with the pain splitting my skull open, leaving me so dizzy and nauseous it was a struggle to keep myself upright.
Bravo, Father.
He and the Players currently gawking at me have ruined everything: I had planned to stay in the Games until I reached age twenty-six, which with my skills would not have been difficult in the slightest, and then The Council would have to let me either finally win or simply leave.
I did not mind as long as I got the fuck out of here.
Even though I would be sad to leave the Games behind. I enjoy them immensely.
In any case, it was a long shot, but it was the only plan I had.
Besides, during the The Bonding Games, other than having the time of my life slicing and dicing Evots and Exots alike as they deserve—just because we Exots are superior to those weak Evots, that does not mean I do not enjoy killing others with red Avri—I usually get a reprieve from my father since even more attention than usual is placed upon us, meaning he cannot try as much of his favourite bullshit with so many wandering eyes studying our every move like crazed acolytes.
But he tried to kill me, and instead I ended up a fucking Bonded.
Idiotic sperm donor.
If I were willing to be beaten and bruised by any more malicious men, I would have bonded years ago, but I only want and need myself these days.
I will never trust a man again.
As it is, I know my father will not want his property owned by another, so he will try to have these men killed.
I had almost done the job for him.
But then I realised that would only give him what he wants and make him love me more, and I cannot have that.
Love is bad.
Love is an evil, cruel thing that destroys families and infects the mind.
So instead of killing the ones who bonded me, I will train them.
They will make me look better if I do; I refuse to have pathetic Bonds.
And maybe I can even warp them into an extra shield against my father.
A couple looked bendable, and I wonder if I could have thought of this years ago and escaped sooner . . .
But then I remember how strong The Bonding Games has made me and how much the killing eases my mind and allows me to let others experience even an ounce of the pain they are enabling me to feel day in and day out by keeping the Game Master in power, making him believe he is a god when he is the furthest thing from one.
I will train the Evots who seek to chain me, but I will have to be careful, make sure I have them fall in line with me and only me.
Some seduction might work . . .
I internally recoil at the thought, insides twisting.
But it might be the best option, especially with the big one.
Hmmmm . . .
I will have a think on that route, maybe do some experiments to see if I can stomach it or if I will throw up inside my helmet.
I am expecting the latter.
I feel sick at just the thought of a man’s touch.
I am now craving blood, and I do wonder if I will be able to refrain from butchering these Evots when they provide such tantalising targets.
“You’re going to train us?” Player 38, the barbie doll, says slowly, the first in the procession of men following me.
Oh, look—they are like my little army already. Perfect.
“Yes,” I say shortly.
“And why’s that?”
Pausing before the Simulation Hexagon, I glare at the Exot currently inside, making sure she feels the force of it through my visor, and she graces me with a look of pure horror that I eat up with satisfaction before she flees from the scene, her Bonded, who had been waiting beside the mammoth taalk shape, rushing along with her like a horde of mice.
Then I turn that glare on Ken beside me.
Although I do vaguely note his shade of blond is a little too dark to be compared to that specific thousand-year-old doll; it is more like the sand on the beach when the sun is going down.
What an odd thought to have.
I suppose he is attractive, with his tapered hair combed neatly on top to add to the natural sensible look he has about him, as well as deep cobalt eyes, a proud jaw, and a faint golden hue to his light skin.
But he is glowing the colour of weakness, and his height ruins everything.
I do not like when anyone looks down on me. It is very rude.
I am meant to be worshipped.
His brother bounds over like an overexcited, overgrown golden retriever then, getting way too close for my liking.
I pointedly take a step away.
“This is so exciting! We’re all going to be total badasses like you!”
Doubt it.
Unless they would like to go through eighteen years of torture.
Actually, that is not a bad idea . . .
Redirecting my focus reluctantly from devising these exciting schemes, I take in the hyper dog:
He does have a nice symmetrical face that is a little more round and youthful than his brother’s, with his skin just a pinch more tan, too.
His hair is lighter as well, closer to a vanilla colour streaked with subtle gold; those feathered waves are long enough to fall into his eyes and around his ears, and combined with the shine and the way the strands look butter-soft, it has me thinking he would be better suited for television advertisements rather than competing as a Player in a fatal event.
He has got a bit more muscle than his brother, but he is not bulky—not like I might describe Player 4 as with the size of his muscles.
I would not consider myself a petite woman, yet next to that one, I might as well be.
Also, I notice 35 is a couple inches shorter than Player 38, around six foot two, so I guess he is closer to kneeling than him.
If I were playing favourites, that might make me like him more.
As it is, I hate them all.
Even the ebony-haired one who seems to have a permanent flush on his otherwise-pale face, and wide hazel eyes which always appear startled or terrified.
I make it obvious my attention is on him and—yep, there it is: those features enhance even more, eyes almost popping out of his head as the tips of his ears colour and the red on his cheeks expands until it swallows him whole.
Hmmm . . .
I hate him.
Possibly a little less than the others, though . . .
“Can I worship your pretty cunt if I’m a good boy?”
I slice my penetrating gaze to Player 4, knowing he can feel it through my one-way visor.
His eyes darken even more than they already had been, and he steps closer as if my death stare was an invitation. “Keep looking at me, Havoc, baby. It makes my dick so fucking hard.”
My eyes narrow to slits despite the fact he cannot see them. But I have always been good at conveying my murderous thoughts even with a helmet concealing my every facial expression.
I do like the name Havoc, though.
It is unfortunate that I despise the man whose lips it came from.
An inch taller than the wild Gold brother, I once again have to look up to keep my line of sight on his face, taking in his cooler tone with a hint of beige.
His grey eyes always seem to hold a hint of madness, a quiet intensity that is ready to become a raging inferno with hardly a moment’s notice, and above those sit thick dark brown brows, his left one slit and pierced with one hoop and a barbell at its subtle arch. I do quite like them.
But again, I do not like the individual they are on.
Looking at the last one for a brief moment, I take in the fact that he is the same height as Player 35, his skin only a couple shades darker than his, too. He is handsome, yet compared to the others, some may call him average.
But only if they could not see past the russet eyes, straight brows, and plump lips to the world of secrets beneath.
Secrets that seem to recognise mine, if just marginally.
I do not like that. Not at all.
I am viciously yanked from my thoughts when unwanted hands find my body, and I curse myself madly. How the fuck did I get lost in my thoughts? I do not do that.
It is these fucking men; they are trying to make me sick already. Is there a single man on this planet who is not a disease?
No matter, I simply will have to make them my puppets sooner rather than later.
It is dangerously silent around me as everyone takes in the two large hands that almost wrap around the entire length of my waist. The perpetrator himself stills, soundless too, as if he cannot quite believe he managed to get them there.
I cannot either.
He squeezes as if testing out the feel of it.
Then groans. “Fucking perfect, Havoc.”
My stomach revolts and— Was that a flutter? What the fuck does that mean? I am certainly not drawn to any of these oafs. No one can tempt me.
A strange bolt of heat travels through me when Player 4’s hands lower, a thick fingertip grazing the edge of my ass.
It is getting worse, and ire slinks through me.
Before he or the other Evots can do any true damage, my knee slams into his dick.
“Fuck!” He doubles over, cupping his crotch protectively. “Fuck, baby. There are other more enjoyable ways to touch my cock, you know?” he wheezes.
Other ways? Yes. More enjoyable? No.
Dismissing him, I face the group as a whole. “One by one, you are going to go into the Simulation Hexagon,” I start, leaving no room for argument, and they all listen intently like the good boys they should be when I am around. “On Level Expert.”
The horror that drenches their faces is comical.
Apart from Player 4’s.
“I can do that,” he agrees easily.
“I can’t!” Player 35 exclaims with a whiny note to his voice. “I can do Advanced for a while, but Expert is for higher 80s! My Score is only 82!”
“I think this is the first time you’re saying that without boasting,” his brother mutters beneath his breath.
“Expert. Five minutes. I need to see exactly how skilled you are. Be grateful I do not throw you in Master. That will come later, however.”
They gape at me.
“We’ve left our helmets in one of the private rooms,” Player 38 sighs.
“Better go get them, then. When you get back, you are up first.”