Page 38 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“We’re not big enough,” he says gently. “Just the two of us. They’re everywhere. Even here. In the cameras. The police at the local station.” His head dips, the guilt coming back. “We wouldn’t make it three feet before they came for us.”

I nod, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

“When they came for me,” he adds.

That’s the part that breaks through the last of my panic. How he says it like the worst thing he can imagine isn’t being dragged back to Ashford. It’s me being dragged back because I chose him.

I press my forehead harder against his and close my eyes.

Above us, the stars keep spinning. Below us, the sign keeps flashing, the hotel uncaring who sleeps under its roof tonight. Tomorrow families will pack cars full of sleepy children and dirty uniforms. They’ll drive home complaining about weak coffee, uncomfortable mattresses, and bad referees.

Tomorrow Carrson and I will go to the rehab center in upstate New York.

I’ll ask my father why, when he was wounded, he ran to Ashford University.

That’s what Silas was getting at.

Not an answer. A question he wanted me to ask, but that’s for tomorrow.

Tonight I’ll go to bed and try my best not to dream impossible dreams.

Chapter eight

Five Days Until Bonding

Laurel

Months ago, Carrson promised to send my father to the best rehab center available.

Back then I hadn’t believed him. Not really. I thought the whole thing was a scam. A way to make me compliant. Obedient.

Now, I see he was telling the truth.

Shady Grove Treatment Center sits in the middle of low rolling hills covered with grass so perfectly green it looks spray-painted on. The building reminds me of an old English estate with its pale brick, climbing ivy, and tall chimneys.

Inside, the atmosphere turns modern. Navy upholstered chairs line the waiting room. A flat-screen TV hangs on the wall with the volume turned low. Somewhere down the hall, monitors beep softly behind closed doors. The sound is familiar, reminding me of all the times I volunteered for hospital shifts.

“Did you know in the hospital doctors used to prescribe beer for alcoholics?” I ask Carrson. “They only have the cheapest pale ale, but they give it so patients don’t go cold turkey and get DTs.”

“DTs?” Carrson asks. “What’s that?”

“Delirium tremens,” I answer. “Their body freaks out when they go into withdrawal. They can hallucinate, have seizures.” I’m babbling now, a way to distract myself from the nerves and excitement of seeing Dad. “Some patients can die from—”

“Laurel,” Carrson interrupts, which is probably good because I was about to break out a dry-erase board and launch into the Krebs cycle.

“Yeah?” I ask, noticing the shadows under his eyes.

After we climbed down from the roof last night, he barely slept. He tossed and turned more than usual, which is saying something, because Carrson Ashford isn’t built for rest. Too many nightmares. Too many responsibilities he can’t set down. At one point, he punched his pillow so many times it seemed like he was fighting with himself.

Given how tired he looks this morning, I’m guessing he lost that battle.

Carrson leans forward, his knee bouncing. “Let’s do it.”

“Huh?”

“Let’s run away,” he says. “It probably won’t work, but we can at least try. It’s the only way I can think of to get you out of this mess.”

I’m not sure which of our many messes he means. His father. The Order. Our bonding. I don’t really care. All I know is that he’s saying yes. He’s giving my impossible plan a chance. Hope flares like a match struck in a thunderstorm.