Page 92 of Broken Ties
It borders the line of being sneaky as hell, but I already know that food is a big deal to her and the idea of actual decent meals is enough to have her packing finally. She’s protective and almost reverent about the last two sweaters she puts in the duffle, almost hesitant to put them on top of the rest of theclothes she shoved in without thought, and it’s clear they belong to one of the other Bonds.
It’s a sure sign of nesting.
Fuck.
If she’s already formed enough of a connection to any of them, we risk withdrawals when we leave. I need to know how bad it is before we run because severe withdrawal can kill or permanently disable Unbonded Centrals who are separated from their Bonds.
I’d hoped their cruel behavior and her isolation would stop the nesting from happening so far. I desperately want to know which one of them it is because while there isn’t exactly a preference, there are obvious ‘worst-case-senarios’ here.
Nox Draven would probably get on a flight to the other side of the world tonight if he thought it could inflict pain and torment on my Bond. The only perk to his rejection and complete withdrawal from her is that it makes it highly unlikely that they’re his.
They’re probably that sulking idiot Ardern’s.
I keep the irritation and frustration from my face as I take the bag from her, slinging it over my shoulder and taking note again of the way she fusses over it. Partly at my respectful treatment and partly about the contents of the bag—it doesn’t bode well for my plans to get out of this place.
When we step out of Draven’s torture cell, one of the girls from this morning is hovering around the hallway with her phone in her hand as though she’s reporting back to that arrogant asshole, and it’s honestly pathetic how easy it is to run her off. I get distracted from gloating over it though because my Bond giggles under her breath, her hand tucking into mine without hesitation as she allows me to lead her out of this place.
“Come on, Sweetness, let’s get the fuck outta this shithole.”
I barely contain my fury as I get her into my car and over to my apartment. Even after getting her bag stowed away and giving her a tour of the place, it’s clear she’s still nervous and embarrassed. I keep up with the easy and effortless banter we’ve shared all day until she can relax back into it, making sure there’s no expectations or judgment ever thrown into the mix. Honoring my Bond is easier than breathing to me, the tricky part is doing so while also making it clear that my respect should never be confused with a lack of interest. My intention is to build a full and fulfilling life with my Bond and that includes being Bonded.
But I’m not in a rush, not when it’s at her expense.
She studies for hours like her life depends on it. I’d rather die than put effort into Draven’s class, or allow his petty digs to shame her into this, but when I make very unhappy grumblings about it, she makes it crystal clear to me that it’s spite driving her, not shame, so I drop it. Instead, I find other ways to keep from distracting her and land on admiring her unabashedly while she’s splayed out on the floor in front of the couch. I catalog each and every inch of her that’s on display, starting with her feet as they kick in the air, and working my way up from there. I’m practically writhing with desperation and satisfaction, gloating over this Bond of mine who couldn’t possibly be any more perfect.
The others are only fooling themselves if they think they could have better.
I’m grinning at myself like an idiot by the time I reach my Bond’s hand where it rests against her open textbook. She has tabs running down the edges and highlighted sections with color-coded notes jotted on Post-Its. History 101 is notoriously the most mind-numbingly boring required class for any Gifted to graduate, but she’s taking it seriously, as though our lives depend on it.
It’s cute as fuck.
Her fingernails are perfectly shaped, natural and well-kept, but her knuckles are bruised and scraped up. I have to remind my own bond that she’s being trained to defend herself, that no matter how hard I try, there’s every chance she’s going to be put in situations she’ll need to fight her way out of and being able to physically take someone down is a necessary skill for her to have.
Even Soul Renders need to throw a punch occasionally.
No matter how much I hate the thought of her fighting, I can’t let my arrogance get her killed. I already know it’s my greatest weakness, and after months of using my father’s against him, I’m keenly aware of just how much damage can be done if some asshole with an inflated ego assumes they’re above reproach.
It’s a sobering reminder of how fragile this little bubble we’re building together really is.
By the time she’s doing more yawning than studying, she’s relaxed back into our dynamic properly again and it’s easy enough to coax her into my bed without her knee-jerk fear response at taking Bonding off the table. She changes into her pajamas in the bathroom but lets me in after so we can brush our teeth side-by-side. It’s domestic as shit, fun and flirty even as she snarks at me for my obvious disappointment in the paltry size of the bathroom. It’s arrogant as hell of me, but I know exactly how low her expectations of her Bonds must be by how impressed she is by this place. I’m also well aware of how that came to be.
As she climbs into the bed on the side I would usually take, and I allow myself another moment of taking her in, I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I’m still standing here in my jeans.
Fuck.
I didn’t think this far ahead and I don’t own pajamas. Sweatpants? Sure, but I’ll roast to death if I attempt to sleep inthem, and even a shirt will probably be too much unless I cut the thermostat down an extra twenty degrees.
She’s already half asleep, bumping into the mattress as she yawns and fumbles around to pull the covers back. I don’t want to spook her after how long I had to convince her to share the bed in the first place, a reasonable concern for a Bond to have.
I murmur quietly, in a carefully nonchalant voice, "Is it cool with you if I sleep in just my boxers? It's too hot for a shirt.”
She only shrugs back to me, not hesitating for a second to slide between the sheets. "Whatever is comfortable for you."
Her eyes barely stay open long enough to send a quick text message, I assume to Sage because she’s not exactly friendly enough to anyone else. She sets her phone down on the side table, murmuring a quiet ‘goodnight’ to me as she relaxes back against my pillows with a sigh drenched with relief. My beautiful, perfect Bond is out cold before I even have the chance to reply, and satisfaction at providing for her is like a drug to me.
For months she’s told me about how hard it is to sleep in her dorm room, how uncomfortable and lonely she’s been, how much the other girls there dig under her skin. I’ve gotten her away from all of that, fed her well, helped her with her assignments, and given her the best bed money can buy. If you’d told fifteen-year-old Atlas Bassinger that this is what would send me to the dizzying heights of Bond fulfillment, I’d have laughed you out of the room. Or punched you in the face, because surely food and a bed are basic needs and not something to gloat about.
Doesn’t make it any less the truth.