25
TIGER
She tilts her head, the dark emerald glow of the blade illuminating her glossy onyx visor. And then—
“Good boy.”
My breath catches. A wildfire surges up in my veins, sparks flicking to life inside my head . . . my cock pressing against its confines in an attempt at an enthusiastic “hello”.
Oh . . . I liked that! How do I make her say that again?! Oh! I know . . .
I bat my lashes.
The sensation of that detached gaze digging into me doesn’t waver.
Damn! Try again, Tiger!
I flash her my most charming grin, lowering my chin to look up at her through my lashes, which I flutter more vigorously for effect.
“Dude, you look like a maniacal serial killer coming for his next victim,” Cooper mutters as he walks by, flicking his visor up as he heads across the room to take a drink from the drinking fountain on the wall opposite the weight racks and near the door, the water coming out crystal clear and making me salivate for some of my own.
But I’m more thirsty for Ezzy and more of her praise.
Oooooooh . . . Ezzy! I love that!
“I agree,” Ezzy says impassively, and Coops does a double-take. In fact, all the other guys in the room glance over, too, each attuned to her every move and having been paying acute attention to her words even while sparring—Tate with Scotty and Cooper with Alby.
It’s just that she’s never interacted like that before.
Her typical is silence unless she’s barking orders or criticising us.
She doesn’t entertain comments like that even when they’re aimed directly at her, and she certainly doesn’t compliment.
Which is another reason, other than the obvious, why I’m stuck on those two beautiful words:
Good boy.
I shudder.
“Okay, Ezzy—”
“Do not call me that.” Her voice cracks through the air like a whip.
“Okay . . . Ez?” I hedge. Then decide to bite my lip in that way that’s meant to be seductive.
She stands there, that intense stare boring into me through her visor.
Yay! I can call her Ez!
“Stop eating your lip like that.” Coops pisses on my artwork like always.
“It’s called seduction—something you could never understand or attempt with your grouchy-ass face.”
“It’s meant to be more subtle.”
“Okay, Coops-The-Seduction-Police—”
“Stop talking.”
My spine snaps straight. “Yes, ma’am.”
Whoops, that just slipped out.
Making no comment, Ezla only says, “Show me what you have learned. Show me you can follow my instructions, Player 35.”
Determined to please her and receive more of her glorious praise, I do as she says.
***
Sadly, I don’t receive another “good boy” before I collapse in a heap on the floor five hours later.
Ezzy—though I’ll have to take care to never say the full nickname out loud so that my tongue isn’t yanked from my mouth—has had us training every day since she became our mentor from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., and I can definitely see a difference in my skills already.
It makes each gruelling day worth it, even more than it already is when it means spending twelve hours with Ez every single day; that time’s only broken up by the half hour she gives us for lunch, which she disappointingly never has with us.
I’m pretty sure I could be a higher 80 now, maybe with a Score of 86, but I won’t know for certain until after Game 2 tomorrow, where the judges watching us from that mammoth viewing box in The Dome’s stands may pick up on the advancements and increase the current number.
Shit . . . Game 2 is tomorrow. That’s really hitting me now, especially when Ezzy says, “Gather around. We need to speak.”
Like obedient lion cubs, all her Bonds head over, me peeling my back off the floor with a groan, only to crawl towards her on my hands and knees.
I seem to be on the floor a lot lately, and I think back on one of our first training sessions with Ez where I was in a similar way:
I execute my trusty double thrust with an unmanifested armoury stick, feinting a strike at her chest before rapidly redirecting the attack to her side, knowing she’ll be so impressed—
“AHHH!”
Ezla has easily deflected and slammed her baton into my stomach.
I double over, knowing my death is coming soon. My knees hit the unforgiving ground as I look up at my Bonded in betrayal. “I . . . trusted . . . you . . .” I rasp.
Then I collapse to the taalk, back on the hard surface and limbs splayed out to really sell the act.
I hold my breath, waiting for her to fall into my trap and save me, to nurse me back to health.
I’m waiting . . . and waiting . . .
Frowning, I peek one eye open.
She hasn’t moved an inch.
“Ezla, please save me!” I try again, deciding to put some emphasis on my pained expression, scrunching my brows and bringing tears to my eyes—which isn’t too hard because damn that blow hurt—then widening my eyelids to make sure she sees just how the moisture makes the blue irises shine so prettily.
She moves over, crouching down, her helmeted head inching closer to mine.
My insides swell with excitement. My plan is worki—
“You should know that the only thing you will ever need saving from is me. I am not the hero in your story, 35. All of this is for my own gain. And you are wasting my time. Get up.”
Yeah, that did not go as planned.
Halfway to Ezla, I look up.
And stop dead.
Sitting on one of the weight benches with one long leg crossed over the other and her lithe arms folded over her chest, her figure emanating an inky-crimson glow from the Avri on her form-fitting black suit, Ezla’s attention is fixed solely on me.
I can feel her eyes penetrating me through the taalk shielding them from me, her stare taking in every millimetre of me, the way I’m looking up at her, the way I crawl to her . . .
Oh.
Oh.
Internally, I smirk. Externally, I lower my gaze submissively, and I keep crawling forwards, much more aware of my movements now: the curve of my spine, which I make sure arches more dramatically; the pace of my approach, which slows marginally; the sway of my hips, which I’m sure to make a tad more obvious .
. . And when I sink my teeth into my lower lip and flick my eyes back up to Ez, looking up at her from beneath my lashes . . . I’m pretty sure I do it right.
When I reach her, I settle on my knees at her feet, sitting back on my heels and folding my hands neatly in my lap.
And even though I can feel the amused and bewildered looks of the men around me, vaguely noticing my brother rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide his smile, I don’t take my attention off Ezla. Not even for a second.
For a while, no one disrupts the quiet, and I wonder if Ez will acknowledge my actions at all. It’s noiseless for one second . . .
two . . .
three . . .
“Good boy.”
Fireworks explode all around.
My heart leaps, and it leaps right into her hands.
Entire face lit up with my joy, I can’t help but flick my eyes over to my two best friends to share it with them, first to my brother, who raises a brow and gives me a small smirk, and then to Alby, whose lips are parted like he’s trying to taste Ezzy’s praise in the air and gobble it up for himself.
So I give the latter an encouraging nod, smile widening as I bob my head vigorously.
He scrambles to his knees as well.
Copying my position, he looks up at our Bonded with round, dazed eyes as though she has him in a trance he can’t and doesn’t want to snap out of.
“Fuckers.” Tate’s rough voice comes from my left as he shoots down to his own knees faster than should be possible for a man of his size, obviously pissed he didn’t think to kneel before our goddess first.
Cheeks hurting from so much grinning, I turn my head back in my brother’s direction.
But he’s not looking at me. Only Ezla.
Like a lot of the time, his face is pretty unreadable to most. But I can see the cogs turning in his head, the twitching of his hands, the shift in his leg.
Scotty drops to one knee like a queen’s personal guard.
And then our eyes all snap to Cooper.
Standing there stiffly, he roams his gaze slowly over the four of us on our knees, then focuses entirely back on Ezla.
He stares and stares, taking in every tiny atom that makes up The Bonding Games Champion.
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
Under his breath, he mutters something viciously.
And with a harsh exhale, two knees land on the floor.
Ezla’s helmeted head tilts in that chilling yet thrilling way as she unfolds her arms and leans back on her palms, taking in the way we kneel in a semicircle at her feet.
My misbehaving eyes can’t help but flick to her chest as it’s emphasised, gluing to the way her Avri suit clings tightly to breasts on the smaller side which I’d love to hold in my hands.
I know they’d fit perfectly. I yank them back up when she speaks. “Good. Very good . . .”
In those three words, I can feel the wicked smirk she’s undoubtably sporting behind her visor, and I gulp loudly, never having heard that tone from her before.
Then my eyes stretch to the size of baseballs when a rush of glee ripples through me, either pushed out from Ez through the bond on purpose, or her delight is so strong she can’t hide it from us.
But my limbs lock up when her tone switches back to its norm in a blink. “Game 2 is tomorrow, and you will all meet me here before we are taken to the arena. Is that clear?”
Our chins dip like good soldiers as a solemness fills the air at once.
“In my eyes, you are not my Bonded. Yet that is what you are in name. I will not have pathetic Bonds.”
As if she’d just pricked my heart with the sharpest, cruellest needle, the organ deflates, letting out a yowl that has me flinching.
Beside me, Tate’s fists clench, but he somehow manages to bite his tongue.
And to my right, Scotty’s jaw turns to stone, before his face evens out into his usual composed mask.
“You will not embarrass me.”
“Yes, Ezla,” I whisper, not even able to summon my new nickname for her that I’d been so excited about, head drooping as the others echo my words in some shape or form.
I don’t know why I thought we’d made progress, that maybe Ezla had softened towards us even the slightest amount over the past few days. I don’t know why I thought she might have started to accept us as her Bonded.
But I was wrong.