Page 100 of Pretty Savage: Defy

She doesn’t speak loudly, but every conversation stops. Even Samantha closes her mouth.

“You’re not dressed appropriately for this venue.” She points to a door at the side of the entryway. “Fortunately, I have plenty of clothing to share with you.”

Then she looks toward the men.

“Gentlemen, please proceed inside.”

They begin moving without argument.

Her silver eyes pause on Carrson, and she gives him a subtle nod. His stride slows by half a step, then continues.

It lasts less than a second, but every insecure thought in my head immediately starts yelling. Does she know him? Have they been together? Does he like older women?

Carrson continues into the club without a backward glance.

Asshole.

“The rest of you,” the woman says, turning away, “follow me.”

She leads us down a narrow hallway. I hang back in the crowd, but I listen as she tells Abbie her name is Ms. Noisette and that she runs Sinners on behalf of Mr. Beaumont.

I grimace at the sound of Jackson’s last name.

“I wonder why we didn’t go to Saints,” I say to Cicley. “Since Carrson is with us, wouldn’t it make more sense to go there?”

“Brentson says the Brothers hardly ever go to Saints, though it’s really nice. Everything that happens there gets reported back to Carr.” She lowers her voice. “Back when Carrson was more, um...active, he didn’t want his father hearing the details.”

Great. My imagination, always eager to betray me, begins supplying those excruciating details.

Ms. Noisette delivers us to a room full of clothing with stations for makeup and hair. She explains this is where staff get ready, but we’re welcome to borrow anything we like. Then she takes her leave.

With Sam’s help, I choose a black-and-red corset. The deep V plunges almost to my navel, leaving the brand exposed. As Sam tightens the laces, the corset draws the skin around the cross taut. Heat spreads through the injured flesh, and I grip the edge of the counter until she finishes.

I reach for the make-up on the table, intending to cover my brand, but let my hand fall.

As much as I hate hurting Carrson, I won’t hide a decision I believe was necessary just because he’d have chosen differently.

To finish my outfit, I add a short satin skirt, sheer stockings, and tie my hair back with a red ribbon.

Sam plants herself beside me in front of the mirror. Her corset is similar to mine but red.

“Can we take a minute to appreciate how hot we look?” She cups her breasts from underneath and gives them an extra lift. “Do you see my tits? I could put someone’s eye out with these things.”

I laugh, but her words stay with me as I look at our reflections.

A year ago, after senior prom, I would’ve been embarrassed to wear this much skin in public. I would’ve blushed, crossed my arms, and searched for anything I could use to cover myself. Somewhere between surviving The Order and seeing myself through Carrson’s eyes, some of that shame lost its hold on me.

I’m not in control of much here. In two days, strangers will gather to watch The Order claim the most private part of me as tradition. But tonight, in this room, no one chose this outfit for me. I did, and I’m proud of how I look. It isn’t freedom, not really, but at least the choice belongs to me.

The men turn when we walk back out. Wesleyson gives a low whistle. “Hello, ladies.” Their stares move over us, heated, all except Carrson, who takes one look at me and glowers. Then his eyes find the mark above my heart, and his chest goes still, hurt breaking through before his expression shuts again.

Beside him, Tipson drags his eyes from my face to my legs and back again. “Damn,” he says under his breath.

Carrson notices.

“Tipson,” he barks, “put your eyeballs back in your fucking head.”

Tipson jerks like he’s been shot and drops his eyes to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can’t help it. She’s pretty.”