Page 18 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“That’s archaic,” I say, my stomach churning with a sick feeling. I might actually throw up. “Abhorrent.”

“The practice hasn’t been used in more than a century.” Carr’s mouth twists as though the words taste bitter. “Modern technology made the sealing obsolete. There are faster, more reliable ways to establish the truth of a bond.”

He sounds almost as disgusted by it as I am, which only makes the situation stranger. Carr Ashford and I are on the same side of something. Not because he cares what this would do to me, I remind myself. Not even because he cares what it would do to Carrson. He sees it as a relic, a waste of time.

I understand hating him. I understand fighting him.

I don’t know what to do with the fact that, in this, we agree.

“You don’t want the sealing either?”

“Do not mistake practicality for mercy, Laurel,” he says. “But yes. It’s a practice better left in the past.”

“Then why is Jack allowed to demand it?”

“The old bylaws were never removed.” Carr looks toward the door, his expression darkening. “Jack Beaumont knows exactly what he’s doing. He wants this bonding challenged from the start. He wants Carrson humiliated before the people who are supposed to follow him. He wants you to know that by bonding with my son, The Order owns you. They can decide what becomes of you.”

I look over at Carrson, who sleeps beside me. He hasn’t moved once during this conversation. “Does Carrson know what it means?”

“I don’t believe so.” Carr hardens his jaw. “There’s nothing to be done about it. To fight against it would only make us look weak and would further any claims that you and Carrson don’t truly belong to one another. We can’t afford that kind of mistrust. Not now.”

“But—”

“Watch him,” he commands, gesturing to Carrson. “He should wake soon. If something’s wrong, come get me.”

Then he’s gone, the door closing behind him before I can finish my argument.

Chapter four

Six Days Until Bonding

Carrson

The world comes back to me in pieces. The crinkle of sheets under me. The smell of old wood and lemon furniture polish. The lazy whir of the ceiling fan overhead. Is it still Halloween? Late October or early November?

A sickening burst of memory. Not facts, but emotion. I was panicking, terrified, searching. My world emptying until there was nothing left except finding her.

My eyes refuse to open, heavy as lead, but my hands are already reaching across the bed. “Laurel?”

“I’m here,” she answers. “I’m right here.”

Her face, that heartbreakingly beautiful face, swims into focus. Warm brown eyes, wrinkled at the corners with concern. Wavy brown hair that falls over her shoulder as she moves closer. Those lips, pink and soft, and crushed to mine the minute I reach her. I kiss her as hard as I can, bruising, needing to feel her.

That she’s real, alive, warm.

Mine, always mine.

I’m out of breath by the time we break apart. “I was so worried.” I press my forehead against hers. “I searched everywhere. Father and the others dragged me back.” The memory hurts. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Laurel. I tried to find you, I swear I did.” The words come out in a rush, but I don’t care. I’m too busy reliving the nightmare. The cornfield and the fear that I’d lost her forever.

“Shh, shh,” she soothes, her hand going to my head and running through my hair. “I know. I know you looked for me. It’s okay. Everything is fine. I’m here. Shh.”

It takes a long minute of her comfort before my heart rate finally slows and that blind panic begins to fade.

We lie back down on the pillows facing each other.

“What happened?” I ask. “Where’d you go?” My hands run over her: arms, neck, hips. I watch her face, looking for damage, any hint of pain.

“Jackson took me. He knocked me out, and when I woke up, I was on Silas’s bus.”