Page 90 of Pretty Savage: Defy

I hook my arm through Gillian’s, then link my other through Steff’s. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“Alexandra,” I say, nodding toward Steff’s free side.

With obvious reluctance, she links herself to her friend.

“Let’s go back inside.”

Gillian tries to slow us as we leave the shadows, but I pull her forward. By the time we reach the terrace, all four of us are walking arm in arm.

I grin brightly, and the girls have no choice but to do the same. Anyone they complain to later will remember this instead: us returning to the party together, close enough to look like friends.

Behind us, Sam films the entire procession, exactly as I instructed.

As we reach the doorway, I catch her eye.

Sam pops out like a jack-in-the-box and raises her phone. “Cheese!”

These girls have been trained since toddlerhood to respond to that word with a smile. Like Pavlov’s dogs, they react before they can think. Their lips stretch into three identical grins.

The flash blinds us.

Sam checks the screen. “You look gorgeous! I’ll send it to everyone.”

They blink at her, stunned into silence.

I lead them into the ballroom with me in the center.

The bestest of friends.

Chapter twenty-two

Two Days Until Bonding

Laurel

Dinner is a relief. Carrson sits to my left and Samantha to my right. I don’t have to worry or fight or pretend. Abbie and Cicley are seated beyond Sam, so I spend half the meal leaning around her to keep them in the conversation.

By the time dessert is served, a chocolate soufflé, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

Our easy banter and laughter are annoying Carr, who sits at the head of the table with Carrson on his right. I can tell by the looks he sends us and his repeated attempts to catch Carrson’s eye. Carrson ignores every one, staying angled toward me so his father gets little more than the back of his shoulder.

Still, Carr notices every breach of propriety. The children of The Order have been raised with impeccable manners. They’ve been taught to sit where they’re placed. To speak only when expected.

Tonight, Samantha talks with her hands. Abbie calls down the table. Carrson laughs too loudly, his arm openly draped over the back of my chair.

They don’t look like dolls arranged around a table. They look young and happy.

At first, Carr’s expression promises a lecture later. But as dinner goes on, his irritation changes. He still looks over, only now his gaze lingers.

He’s spent Carrson’s entire life teaching him how to survive and almost none of it teaching him how to be happy. Now that Carrson is laughing with no danger to conquer and no performance to give, his father doesn’t seem to know what to do except watch.

Dessert is cleared away, and Carr rises to his feet. He lifts his champagne glass, which I notice has held only water all evening, and taps the tines of his fork against the crystal.

Three times.

The ringing carries through the room and out across the grounds. Conversations stop beneath the tents. The orchestra falls silent.

“Members of The Order,” Carr intones once every face has turned toward him. “I welcome you to my home in celebration of my son Carrson’s bonding to Laurel Bellefleur, a lamb lost along the way and now returned to us, her rightful family. Amen.”