Page 14 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“His vitals?” asks Carr.

The other man doesn’t answer immediately. There’s the faint jingle of metal, then several seconds of silence.

“Stable. He’ll sleep for a while, but breathing’s even. Pulse is strong.”

“Good,” Carr says curtly. “Now heal her.”

I stiffen, knowing he must mean me.

“It won’t work,” protests the man, though he sounds more confused than angry, like he’s used to obeying Carr’s orders. “She’s not one of us.”

“Just do it,” says Carr in a weary voice. “I want to see—”

“Wait.” The man’s voice rises. “You don’t think—”

His words cut off abruptly, and I can only assume Carr made some sort of gesture. A finger pressed to his lips.

My heart rate spikes when the man moves to my side of the bed. I’m at war with myself. Instinct shouts at me to run, but I force myself to stay limp beneath the blankets. Pretend to be asleep.

There’s that same sound again. A hiss. For a terrifying second I expect pain, another punishment, some new cruelty, but then something cool and airy sprays across the abused flesh on my back. The burning eases immediately. My muscles slowly loosen. I sink into the mattress, letting it swallow me whole.

The man is still leaning over me, close enough that I hear his gasp. “God grant us mercy,” he whispers. “Carr, do you—”

“I know,” says Carr.

“But this means—”

“I know,” says Carr, sharper this time.

“Our research. Our prayers—”

“Thom. Stop.” There’s warning in Carr’s tone, enough to let me know he suspects I’m awake and he doesn’t want me to hear this conversation. Those words also tell me who he’s talking to. Thom. Thomson’s father. Carrson told me once these two men are best friends, that their relationship is why he was practically raised with Thomson, why he views Thomson as a brother, not of blood but of spirit.

“Sorry,” mutters Thom, sounding embarrassed by his outburst.

“It’s all right,” says Carr, his voice gentler than I thought him capable of.

Thom moves away from me, over to where Carr sits. “Have you called your sponsor yet?”

Carr huffs, “No.”

“I really think you should, especially with everything that just happened with Carrson,” says Thom.

“I will. Later.”

“Carr…”

“Stop nagging, Thom. I swear you’re like an anxious mother hen.” Now Carr’s annoyance isn’t hidden. “Stop feeling so guilty. I made my own decisions.”

“But if I hadn’t given in to my weakness and gotten you started…”

“Hmm,” Carr says dryly. “Sounds like something you ought to discuss with your sponsor.”

I keep my eyes closed, trying to reconcile their conversation with the man who wielded a whip. A sponsor. Thom’s guilt. Carr’s concern. None of it matches the memory of blood running down Carrson’s back.

Carr’s still talking. “Quit worrying and prepare the lab.”

“Already started.”