33
EZLA
“Good girl,” Father praises, taking my armoury stick from me as I demanifest my dagger as he taught me to.
I have only recently been named an Exot, but Father and I knew I could be nothing other.
Experts advised waiting until I was at least eight years old for as much accuracy as possible to learn my social classification, but he decided there was no harm in finding out a week before that time came.
Now, I have my own Avri cluster, and I have just used an Avri dagger for the first time to kill an Evot.
Before, I have studied and practiced the basics with non-Avri daggers, but Father told me I could not start any hardcore exercises until I was old enough, and of course I did not have the fascinating energy over the past two years to work with.
Yet even so, the green-infected eleven-year-old girl was not too hard to kill.
The other two social classifications truly are abominations.
Father continues, “I knew you would not falter on your first kill. You do not get upset when a life is taken, Daughter. They mean nothing to you. It is only I your heart should beat for.”
“Yes, Father.” My young voice holds no emotion.
“You are so perfect already,” he murmurs as he cups my cheek in his hand. “I will show you better ways to take a life for your eighth birthday tomorrow, and then your true training can begin.”
“Yes, Father,” I repeat.
“You have no idea how proud I am of you, Ezla. I love you so much.”
I love you so much.
I love you so much.
I love you so much.
Tipping my head forwards, Father kisses my forehead, lingering for long enough that my brows threaten to scrunch.
“And I know you love me too.” Pausing as he pulls back, he then continues, “The world will adore you; they will love you in the way all celebrities are loved. But only I can love you truly. Only I can understand you, Ezla. Because you are special. You are different from the rest. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” I say once more. And I do understand: Father does not let me leave home very often, as I have everything I need right here and he does not think the world deserves to see my face, but I am aware that I am different from other people.
Father tells me I am superior, like him, and I can feel that I am.
He tells me what other humans are like; he tells me others would feel remorse when they kill, that children my age would burst into humiliating tears if they were denied ice cream.
After he educated me through television, I was curious about the dessert, but I certainly did not care when he told me I could not have it. And after today, I have discovered I cannot relate to the first piece of information revealed either.
Father’s thumb caresses my cheekbone. “Such a good girl.” Moving on, he rises to his full height.
I find I do not much like the way I have to tip my head so far back to see him.
“I must attend a meeting now, but make sure you complete each strategy game I left out on the dining table for you. And always remember that I love you.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
My eyes snap open.
A single drop of blood hits the bathroom sink.
Uncurling my hand from around the blade of my Avri dagger, I watch, detached, as the crimson energy absorbs the red fluid on it.
I am back in my Bonded chambers now, in my bedroom.
As so politely requested, I informed my Bonds that I would be coming in here when we arrived and that I would be closing the bond for some much-needed alone time, leaving them with clear instructions to feed themselves well, leave me be, and take some Avritabs for their aches and pains along with the tablets brought from Father’s penthouse.
I could tell they wanted to protest, not eager to use them when they feel they should be reserved for worse injuries than minor cuts and bruises, but one look at my face had them nodding along like the good boys they are supposed to be.
However, a certain two most definitely were not in line with the idea of showing me the respect I deserve today.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you—
Rolling my neck, I grit my teeth as I slide my armoury stick back into place over my shoulder.
I do not understand why they are demanding things of me.
Have I not given them enough? And then Scotty .
. . the way he spoke to me, the way he undermined me as if I can be questioned .
. . three simple words that could crash down everything, warp the way people see me with their false implications . . .
I am not able to be swayed. Just the thought of the entire world thinking I can be, even if it is not true, even if I am the same woman I have always been .
. . It is simply weakness. So much weakness that it is nauseating.
Humiliating. I am not like the rest of the world, and I will not have anyone falsely believe I am.
Teeth gritting, more blood drips into the sink under my hand as it is squeezed out by my balled fist.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
But it is more than that. It is that the weakness is already in me. It makes my skin itch and crawl, and I just want to tear my innards out, to rearrange them in the hopes that they will become what they once were: Cold. Black. Uncaring.
It has not been easy, but I have been giving in to what I wanted because it felt good.
But today, the demands . . . that did not feel good.
My Bonds are telling me this is a part of being in a relationship, but I do not want the parts that do not feel amazing.
I do not want to care when one of my men is upset or harmed.
I do not want to have to reassure them when they should trust that I am capable of taking care of myself.
I do not want them to know that they have any disgusting control over me.
All of that is painful, especially the last, and reality has slapped me hard in the face today. I am reminded that nothing is ever truly good. But I thought I could almost feel . . . happiness. And I was trying to understand more, because there was almost . . .
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you—
“SHUT UP!” My fist crashes into the mirror, and glass rains down everywhere. But it does not stop.
I love you.
I love y—
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
The itching of my skin gets worse and worse, and I tear out of my Avri suit, glass and soap and my toothbrush, anything and everything, crashing to the floor.
Vaguely, I make out distant shouts, and I do not think I have the bond under my control anymore, but I cannot find it in me to care when I have already lost control of so much else.
Love you, love you, love you . . .
I hate that motherfucking word. It is only pain. There is nothing good, nothing nice about it.
A scream of pure rage leaves me, and I do not quite know what is happening, how this has managed to tip me over the edge.
The fact that I am so beside myself only increases that wrath and disgust within me, and I just want it out.
I want it all out. I wish I had never begun to feel.
I wish I had never met them. I just want it out, out, out . . .
Knees rushing for the hard taalk floor, my heart thrashes about embarrassingly fast, no part of me cool and collected as it should be, my skin clammy.
Fumbling with the glass down here, I do not react as shards split open my palms before I get a good grasp on a large piece, and I blink angrily, salty liquid burning paths down my cheeks.
My next scream is filled with the disgraceful tears, and the overwhelming urge to just end it all takes over like it only has one time before. But this time, it is all too much. All these feelings, it is too fast, too much, too new and strange, and I—
Grabbing the shard in both hands now, I bring it up before bending my arms at the elbows and stabbing it down and inwards into—
I’m yanked backwards into a solid wall of muscle, my arms jolted so hard and fast from the right at the same time that I lose my grip on the shard of glass completely.
It clatters to the taalk, but I can hardly see anything through my blurry eyes as I scream and shout like a madwoman, thrashing about in whichever dead man’s arms I am in.
“. . . stop her! She’s still hurting herse . . . shards all over the floor!”
Stubble rasping roughly across my cheek. “Stop moving, Vengeance. We’ve got you, and we’re not letting you go until you stop hurting yourself—”
More unwanted hands reaching for me.
“. . . still for me, Love. Stay still.”
I kick out madly, strike my arms out all over the place.
“Fuck . . . Havoc. Baby . . . promise you . . . kick my lights out, but only when you’re better—”
“. . . why?! E-Ezla . . . n-need to ho-ld her . . .”
“Stay back, Alby . . . not herself. It’s not safe.”
Not myself. Not safe.
Alby.
As if I would ever hurt my shy boy. As if I would hurt one of my Bonds.
Blinking rapidly as I still, my vision finally clears. Panting heavily, entire body trembling, I take in the scene before me:
My arms are held captive by Scotty, whose horrified blue eyes stare into me.
Large bands that I find to be Tate’s shaking hands are wrapped around my calves firmly when I look that way, and that unhinged look in his stormy-grey gaze is not attractive in the way it usually is, only concerning.
Just behind Scotty is Tiger, paused mid-stride as if he had been about to try to help, his skin papery white, tears soaking his face.
And behind him, stood frozen before the now-open doorway, is Alby.
I feel physically sick at the look on his face.
All of that tells me that the owner of the damp, burning bare chest pressed tight to my back is Cooper. His legs are wet, too, the hair on him even darker than usual, telling me he rushed from the shower to get here, only throwing on boxer briefs from the feel of things.