32
ALBY
Everyone seems a little off today. Something just doesn’t feel right, and everyone knows it.
It’s making my nervousness even worse than usual, and it’s not because I sometimes wonder if another horde of Exots are about to drop from the ceiling at any given moment and charge at us—though that has been another worry of mine since the attack, and I’ve even discreetly studied some of the Exots here to make sure it was none of them.
It doesn’t seem to be, and none of the other men in my Bonded group have even brought that night up again, all reading the warning, and something more, in our Bonded’s tone when she said to never speak of it and heeding it well.
So it isn’t that even though I do feel on edge when I think about it. No, it’s . . .
Ezla has been ruthless. Even more so than normal.
Embarrassingly, I almost sobbed because of her cruel words and harsh rebukes, and yet I couldn’t find any anger within me to pair with the pain. Because I, like all the other men, can tell something’s happened with our Bonded, and we don’t need to feel her emotions to know that.
Not that she ever really lets us to begin with.
“Focus, Alby.” Scotty’s tense words are accompanied by a stiff smile as he attempts to encourage me. “Archery is your best skill.”
Arrow Tag is the next Game, so this week, Ezla has us extra focused on our bows and arrows. But I’m making a complete fool out of myself.
In the archery room that can be accessed through a door by the treadmills in the main section of the Training Centre, I fire my third arrow—
And miss again.
“29!”
I flinch at Ezla’s biting reproach.
“Ezla, lay off—”
Scotty’s attempt at calmly and peacefully defusing the situation fails and backfires.
“Fifty push-ups, 38.”
His jaw ticks but he obeys without another word, obviously understanding anything he tries will only make this worse. Moving back to get more space, he gets into position and easily carries out the task, the muscles in his arms flexing, expression tense.
Throughout the day, things don’t change with Ezla, but I do manage to get a few bullseyes on the targets before we move on to other aspects of our training later in the day, our Bonded making us work through the Simulation Hexagon, as she likes to have us do at least once a day, for our last exercise.
It’s brutal and every limb is always screaming afterwards, but it’s effective, and I’m always proud of the progress I’ve made.
No matter how black and blue my body looks in the shower at the end of the day, which I’m happy to say is actually less and less often recently.
“Ezla!”
Beside me, my Bonded turns to stone.
Why does that voice sound slightly familiar?
We’ve just finished up inside the Hexagon, Tiger stumbling out dramatically but freezing mid-pant as he takes in the scene before him. Warily, I look over my shoulder, Cooper, Scotty, and Tate doing the same, to take in the man at the open double doors of the Training Centre.
I don’t recognise him, and with his average mousy-blond hair and frame that’s lean but more soft than what you’d typically see on a trained Evot or Exot, he could be any old middle-aged man.
He isn’t someone I’d look twice at if I passed by him on the street.
And yet I can’t shake off that sense of familiarity.
“Peter.”
Peter?
Confusion and a searing lash of jealousy smacks into me so aggressively, I almost stumble, and I have to stifle a whimper as a deep sense of hurt comes along with it.
My friends, brothers even—both of those terms feel surreal to think and make my nose all stuffy, so I can’t linger on them for too long—all appear to have varying physical reactions that all stem from the same pot of feelings: Scotty’s spine straightens, hands tightening into fists to mirror my own emotions with a more extreme yet suppressed dollop of anger; Tiger’s expressive face seems to drop and tighten all at once; Cooper’s jaw works, and I can practically hear his teeth gnashing as his dark eyes narrow on the newcomer; and Tate is a bull ready to charge, nostrils flaring and envy so clear on his face I swear I can almost smell it.
She never calls us by our names.
She called me mine one time, and it felt like the organ in my chest exploded into little red love hearts. But after that day, she never spoke it again.
Who is he to her to be important enough to do so?
Wrapping my arms around my frame that’s already filled out more with my new meal plan and training, I bite my lip to contain the trembling in it as Ezla strides over to Peter . . . then promptly burn like the Sun’s right next to me when my attention catches on her ass and swaying hips.
Shame engulfs me, even as blood rushes down south.
That seems to happen a lot when she’s around, and it’s still odd to feel the sensation when it never used to happen before her.
Even weirder that when it does happen and I have some time alone, I’m too scared to try and touch myself, so I’m left with an uncomfortable ache until my erection decides to go down.
“I’m going to kill Peter,” Tate seethes at my side, glaring lasers into the older Exot as Ezla reaches him.
We can’t hear what’s being said from here as our Bonded’s helmet tilts in that eerie way of hers, but the longer I watch, I actually don’t think she likes this man.
I’m about to open my mouth and point that out—but then, she strikes.
In an instant, she’s on him, gloved fists hammering into his face as she takes him to the ground, straddling him in an unyielding hold and showing zero mercy.
But as blood splatters across the once-spotless glinting floor, and the other Bonded groups pause their training to see what all the commotion is about, it’s alarmingly clear that this is not her usual fighting style.
And as her walls come down and the bond becomes soaked through with all the pain and anger that no one should be able to harbour in a lifetime, I know she’s completely lost. Never have I seen her like this.
Not even when we bonded her at the end of Game 1.
“Scotty,” Tiger utters, voice laced with panic, his terror-filled eyes stuck to the scene as he urges his older brother to do something, anything.
It’s so natural that we look to him, and despite not wanting to burden him all the time, I also know he’s more than happy taking on that role of caretaker, that it comforts him. So it eases some of the guilt when I whimper, “Please, help her.”
He nods, no hesitation. Face hardening with resolve, he strides over to Ezla and Peter with determination highlighting every long step.
When Tate starts to follow, Cooper stops him with an arm across his huge chest. The former pins the leaner man with the devil’s glare, but he’s unbothered, sending his own severe look back in return.
“No, Tate. This needs to de-escalate—not get even worse. I know you want to join her in beating the crap out of that man, but violence is seriously not the answer this time, and I’m not saying that just because I have an aversion to it.
She needs peace right now, not fuel. You get that?
” Tate’s jaw works, and Cooper continues, “This is like what we talked about before, yeah? Sharing Ezla ensures she gets everything she needs. Scotty can help her right now, but you can help with different things.” He glances over his shoulder at the nosy Evots and Exots who are watching everything avidly and gossiping together, then looks pointedly back at Tate, whose lips twitch up at the corners into something wickedly delighted.
He turns his first maniacal glower on the spectators, and the petite Evot girl who unfortunately receives the full force of it backs up with huge, terrified eyes, grabbing her friend’s arm in a tight grip and urging him away.
I don’t even know their names, and guilt pinches at my chest. But I tell myself to shake it off; they probably don’t know mine either, just my Player number. Because that’s all we are to each other: Players. Opponents.
Other than the ones I went to school with, I never really know anyone’s names.
And maybe we avoid talking about the Evots and Exots outside of our Bonded group because it’d make it harder to kill them if we think about how they’re all just like us, trying their very best to survive.
But I do remember Iggy, Dex, Jodine, and Mavry from third school, and of course, Aider and Troy, who I quickly yank my gaze away from before it can meet theirs and draw them over.
It’s then that I realise my school has the most survivors, with seven including me. That’s practically a miracle, and it brings me a small sense of comfort.
Comfort which is pushed down when I remind myself that that figure is liable to change in a snap . . . and that I’ve already been the one to change it once . . .
Guilt weighs down on me, and I have to crush that under my heel, too, knowing it will wreck me if I linger on it.
However, I could definitely do without the two men who used to bully me . . . and who’ve been abnormally silent enough to cause that to be in the past tense.
Unease sweeps through me.
I swiftly swivel my attention back to where it really wants to be and not on the possibly of a surprise attack while I’m sleeping, reminding myself that only my Bonded group can enter our chambers.
My eyelids stretch out and my heart catapults when my gaze find the scene still playing out, too many emotions to count jumbled up inside me:
Reaching Ezla and the bloody pulp that’s become of the man on his back on the taalk floor, Scotty gently but firmly pulls her up, strong arms wrapping around her small waist, muscles defined with tension as he takes her away.
It’s another sign of how far gone she is that she doesn’t easily and immediately break out of his hold, though it’s lucky Scotty’s still wearing his helmet from using the Simulation Hexagon because her flailing limbs do whack into it with enough force that I’d be worried about him receiving brain damage if he was unprotected.