49
EZLA
The first thing I notice is that I am strangely . . . What is that? Emptiness? Numbness? Hmm . . . neither sounds quite right.
It is quiet, but . . . something nice is there . . . something relaxing . . .
Something peaceful.
That is what it is, this foreign feeling I have never experienced before.
Peace.
Am I finally dead?
Horror and pain fill me from head to toe.
How rude.
But unsurprising. When do I ever get to be at peace?
It is very odd, too—they were certainly not mine, those feelings. That was . . . Oh. I internally sigh. I really cannot keep up today. Or is it night? Hmmm . . . disgraceful, Ezla, truly.
“Love?”
Something is stroking my hair.
Oh . . . that feels nice.
Keep doing that, and I will not kill you, I promise whatever is causing that delightful sensation.
A flicker of amusement that is also not mine.
“There’s no need for death threats, Love. I’m perfectly happy to do this forever.”
My senses sharpen.
The smell of men. The buttery softness of silk. The looseness of my clothes and the hair I know should be in one of my favourite secure styles but which I can feel is unbound . . . the large hand that is running through it.
My lashes flutter open.
That cannot happen again. It was supposed to be a far more deadly snap that usually comes naturally to me.
I blink at the sight before me:
On my left, sitting with one leg folded beneath him on the huge onyx bed in our Bonded chambers, Cooper wears his usual frown but one hundred times deeper; his deep russet stare digs into me like he is attempting to pick apart my mind, and I internally roll my eyes.
Beside him, Alby looks at me with those wide, worried gold-green-brown eyes of his, his ever-present blush faded slightly, as though he has seen a ghost, and something like .
. . abhorrent concern flickers to life inside of me.
At the foot of the bed, with my feet in his lap, is Tiger, and matching eyes to the shy boy and plump lips popped open give me the impression that he is in a mixture of shock and excitement about something I do not have the mental power to discern at this particular second.
By my legs on my right side sits Tate, those paws-for-hands white-knuckled in his lap like he is for once questioning touching me.
I very much do not like that, and I will consider threatening to slice his balls off if he does not get over whatever is happening right now in his head.
Lastly, there is Scotty, the caregiver of the group he seems to believe I am the centre of. The heart of.
Unfortunately for him, I do not have a heart.
It does not escape my notice that I have begun to call them by their names; it first happened with Alby but subsequently started slipping out with the others, too.
At this point, it seems I have woken up and my mind has decided it cannot take the added stress of trying to sort through what is appropriate to call these Evots when everything else is already a shitshow provoking a desire in me to tear my hair out.
And my hair is lovely, unlike the mess on my face, so that is a big deal.
“Your hair is lovely, Ezzy, I agree!”
I pause, stare snapping back to Tiger and drilling into him. And that is when it hits me.
About ten business days later, Ezla, well done.
This is the most humiliating scene I have ever starred in.
“Get out of my head.”
“But it’s so fucking nice in here, Havoc, getting to hear all your thoughts.”
I slam my walls up.
Disgruntled groans sound out all around me.
“Why, Ezzy?!” Tiger whines, squeezing my feet—my bare feet, might I add.
They have stolen my shoes.
Scotty sighs as he gently smooths his hand over my hair once more, and I internally chuff like a lioness.
The tenderness admittedly encourages me to leave his fingers bloody stumps, but I discard that in favour of being pampered.
I do enjoy making slaves of these men. He asks just as softly as his movements, “How are you feeling? Do you know what happened?”
Beginning to remember everything that occurred in the private training room and the following blackness— my mind quickly scanning over what may have prompted it and landing on the knowledge Father likely received news of my beheading of Player 24, took that as me professing my undying love for my Bonds, and grew pettily jealous, to which I mentally roll my eyes—I promptly dismiss his concern and ask, “Who undressed me while I was unconscious?”
Cooper coughs into his fist while Scotty grimaces. “Love, did you have to say it like that? We just wanted you to be comfortable and check nothing under your Avri suit was hurting you.”
Hm.
“Uhhhh . . . we thought you wouldn’t mind too much with how confident you’ve been in showing us your body—rightfully so, by the way, Wifey.” Tiger winks.
I stare.
“Were we wrong? We also couldn’t, ah, get into your room . . . obviously. So we kind of had to . . .” Scotty’s warm-ivory cheeks gradually gain colour, and he rubs at the back of his neck.
Oh, this will be good. I am always amused when the put-together one loses his composure around me. It is delightful.
“He dressed you in his clothes—his pyjamas,” Cooper supplies helpfully.
I blink.
Then internally, I sigh once again. Ezla, you should truly be ashamed of your lack of awareness today.
Displaying none of that on my face, I flick my eyes down.
“They are too big,” I inform them of the obvious as I stare down at the plain black T-shirt and shorts on my body.
“Ah . . . yes, Love—I am bigger than you.” I can tell this pleases Scotty immensely.
It is not for nefarious reasons either; I have noticed he likes how portable and easy to hide I am. However, I neither need to be carted about nor hidden.
Although he may need to be hidden from me if he keeps thinking these ridiculous things.
“I’d never wish to restrain you, Ezla. That’s not it at all.”
It seems I have accidentally dropped my walls again. I whip them back up.
“It would not be easy to grab me if you dared try. My size actually works against you—I am agile.”
Scotty’s lips twitch. “True. Maybe I just like the idea of swallowing you up in my arms while I take care of you.” But he frowns then, as if not liking something about his words.
“But my feelings for you have nothing to do with your size or general appearance at the end of the day, despite how devastatingly stunning you are.”
Tate puts in, “I just want my Havoc in any way, shape, or form.”
“Even if she were a slug?”
“What the fuck, Tiger?” Cooper mutters.
“Yeah,” Tate grunts. “She’d be a deadly, hot slug.”
“How the bloody hell can a slug be deadly?”
“Because it’s Havoc—”
Scotty looks incredulous, and I slip into his mind.
Why the fuck have we started talking about slugs?
“I do not know. I am not a slug,” I answer him out loud, considering removing these Evots’ tongues for such disrespect, and he startles a little.
The five of them appear horrified.
Then everyone starts talking at once, their voices overlapping:
“Of course not, Havoc! I’d never call you a slug—”
“Vengeance, no part of you reminds me of a slimy creature, nor have I ever compared you to one—”
“Oh gods! I do not think of you as a slug, Ezla! I would never—”
“Love, I promise you, you look nothing like one and are far more impressive—”
“THE POINT IS WE’D ALL LOVE YOU NO MATTER WHAT!” Tiger’s voice rises above all the others’, and the four of them fall silent. “That’s all we were trying to say.”
No one refutes his claim, and something writhes within me.
Must be nausea.
I narrow my eyes to slits. “I did not need to know that. I do not care.”
Tiger pouts, and a heavy silence envelopes the room.
I realise then that sometime during this conversation, the hand has stopped moving in my hair.
Very, very slowly, I slide a menacing glare to my right.
Rolling his lips in, Scotty does a deplorable job of hiding his amusement as he gets back to stroking my head, palm smoothing over it, fingers running through my dark strands.
I glare harder to make sure I get the point across that his touch is not that good and I am not enjoying it or his attention.
A moan leaves me when fingers dig into the arches of my feet.
I will kill them all for reducing me to this.
Yet when I imagine sawing through the bone and tissue of any one of these men, it does not appeal to me the way it previously has.
I still despise them.
Cooper clears his throat, and the lids that had just closed to bathe in my deserved treatment slide open again to allow my glower to reach full effectiveness as I pin vitriolic eyes on him.
He does not heed the warning.
“We need to talk, HC.”
I hiss viciously and shoot upright in an instant, any notions of peace evaporating—
My wrath falters when I catch sight of one of the obsidian bedside tables, the top of which holds wet flannels, Avritabs, and water, as well as some of the cinnamon-scented oil they had used on me previously, like they had been fully prepared to give me another massage if I’d so desired.
But I shake off anything the discovery dredges up from the blackened cavity of my chest and growl out the logical thoughts this behaviour of theirs brings to me lowly, “You did this for information. To uncover my secrets. I will destroy you.”
“No!” Alby cries when I start to get up.
For him, I pause.
How weak of me.
He is my biggest problem when it comes to .
. . softening me. Only a smidge, but I am not oblivious to it.
I do not choose favourites—I would have to take a liking to at least one of them for that—but they all have different .
. . effects on me, I would say, though it does not please me to admit, and that is his.
They each bring something different to the equation, and Alby is . . . safest.
Yet even then, I must remember to remain on guard at all times.
“N-no, please . . . d-don’t. Don’t go.” I tense when long fingers wrap around my calf, and he immediately snatches his hand away.
How fucking dare he.
His hand whips back in an instant.