Page 42 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Carr appears offended by the emotion in front of him. “You were removed from the path,” he says primly. “The Order took what was owed.”

“What was owed?” Dad laughs once, the sound harsh. “You took my inheritance. My future. Now you want my daughter too?” His lower lip quivers. “I don’t owe you her.”

Carr’s lips thin as if my father said blasphemy. “That’s exactly what you owe. The duty you’re trying to shirk.”

“No,” Dad protests. “Not her.”

“She’s Order-born,” Carr snaps. “Whether you had the courage to raise her that way or not, she belongs with us.”

For a wild, breathless moment, I think about escape. The kind Carrson and I talked about an hour ago, except this time we take my father with us. Just grab his hand and run.

But that’s a plan born out of panic and stupid hope, because the reality is that taking Dad might backfire and destroy all the progress he’s made. The realization hurts, but recovery has rules. It needs time to build, a fragile scaffolding that can’t survive being ripped apart just because I’m scared. Even after everything Dad’s hidden from me, after all the lies, I still love him too much to ask him to run before he’s strong enough to stand.

A nurse hovers near the doorway, drawn by our raised voices. Her eyes move from my father’s pale face to my hand in his, then to Carr.

“Mr. Ashford. Good to see you. Hope Mr. Wainwright is well,” she says, and my attention snags on those names because no one introduced him and what does she mean Wainwright? That’s Thomson’s last name.

Carr gives her a courteous nod. “I’m afraid Mr. Turner is overwhelmed,” he says unruffled. “We’ll leave him in your care.”

“Laurel.” My father clings to my hand, and I look down at his fingers, struggling to reconcile that these are the ones that held mine and taught me to walk, the ones that gripped the dashboard in terror when I was learning to drive, also turned the doorknobs of Ashford House.

My voice cracks, so I swallow and try again. “It’s going to be okay, Dad.”

Carrson shakes his father’s hand off his shoulder and comes to me. His eyes stay on my face, asking all the questions he can’t say out loud with his father watching.

Can you leave him?

Can you survive this?

Carr comes over then. He faces my dad. “Stanson, there were…rumors about why you left, but I could never confirm. Were they…”

Dad’s shoulders hunch, all the progress I’ve seen in him dissolving in an instant. He nods once, then turns toward the window, staring through it with vacant eyes.

“Dad?” I whisper.

His breath shakes on the way in. He looks past my shoulder to Carrson.

“Take care of her,” he tells him.

“I will, sir.” Carrson’s mouth tugs up slightly. “Though she rarely needs my help.”

Dad sighs. “She’s always been that way.”

I go to him, wrapping my arms around him before I can think too hard about everything I need to ask. His arms close around me, and I shut my eyes, breathing him in. For once, there’s no alcohol clinging to his clothes. He smells like coffee and laundry detergent and the father who used to drive me to school with a travel mug balanced between his knees.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“I love you too, Laurel.”

The nurse steps closer, giving us the kind of patient space that tells me she’s watched families say harder good-byes than this one. Dad releases me first.

Carrson’s hand finds the small of my back as we turn toward the door. I let him guide me out, even though every question Carr left hanging follows close behind us.

What did Dad run from? What did Carr hear? What other parts of my father’s life existed before he became mine?

At the doorway, I look back.

Dad’s standing by the window with the nurse beside him, his shoulders bent.