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I looked up at Montgomery in alarm. “I thought there wouldn’t be any permanent damage from this.”
His jaw went tight, but he dipped his head so that he could whisper in my ear. “The Order loves to make rules and then test the loopholes. I imagine they’d say that a tattoo isn’t technically permanent damage since people get them for fun.”
I huffed out a semi-panicked breath. Shit. I never wanted a tattoo before. I hated needles. I thought people who got tattoos were crazy to subject themselves to it.
But this is your future. What’s an hour or two of pain for your entire future?
Though, could I really trust them to live up to their end of the bargain if they were so casual about finding “loopholes” like this?
Montgomery’s father stepped out from amidst the group. “Ah, boy. Here you are. You’re up first. Have a seat.”
Montgomery’s father placed his hands on the back of the chair opposite the tattooist, a wide grin on his face.
Montgomery didn’t skip a beat. He gave my arm another subtle squeeze and then dropped it, striding confidently over to the chair and sitting down.
“Your wrist,” the tattooist said. The guy positioned Montgomery’s arm and exposed his inner wrist on a little armrest I hadn’t noticed before.
No one looked my way or apparently expected anything of me, so I just watched on, biting my bottom lip.
The tattooist prepped Montgomery’s inner wrist, shaving the short hairs, placing down the contact paper and then pulling it off again. Left behind on Montgomery’s skin was a small, tasteful design of two crossed sabers.
Then came the cringe-worthy part. The buzz of the machine started up and the tattooist slowly began his work. Every few moments, he dipped the tip of his needle in the black ink to absorb more and then continued the line work of the tattoo, swiping away excess ink and blood as he went.
I wasn’t sure if it was better to look away or to watch and see what they’d likely be asking me to do next.
In the end, though, it didn’t take nearly as long as I expected. The tattoo artist was good at what he did. It was only thirty or forty minutes later when he finished.
He wiped Montgomery’s wrist down with antiseptic and then wrapped it in saran wrap and tape.
The Elders stomped their canes in applause as the tradition was completed. Now I wondered if they all had the small sabers tattooed on their wrists. And former belles? Did they have the same? Was I expected to do it now, too?
Montgomery stayed impassive through the entire thing so I couldn’t tell if it hurt or not. He stood up and I expected them to call me forward next.
But the tattoo artist began to pack up his equipment.
My eyes shot to Montgomery’s, and I could tell he was just as surprised as I was. Was this really just a test for him? I got off scott free for once? I mean, I wasn’t complaining or anything, but—
“Now it is time for the Branding of the Belle,” Montgomery’s father said loudly.
I frowned in confusion.
“Then why is he leaving?” Montgomery asked the question that was on the tip of my tongue. The tattoo artist didn’t give us a second glance as he walked out of the ballroom and a few moments later, we heard the slam of the front door behind him.
“You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Montgomery’s father taunted him. “We’re here to test your mettle, Son. Can you truly do what needs to be done? If so, take up the branding iron and brand your belle as all your forefathers have done before you.”
And then the man gestured toward the fire and an item I’d missed before now.
Sticking out from the red-hot flames was what I mistook as a fire poker dug into the embers. But then Montgomery’s father pulled it out and brandished it.
The end was white hot and so bright it burned my eyes to look directly at it. But I was able to look long enough to see that the burning end was vaguely shaped the same as Montgomery’s new tattoo—in the shape of two crossed sabers.
No.
Fuck no.
I backed away several steps without thinking.
Montgomery moved in front of me, blocking me from the branding iron.
And I suddenly realized that this was about three seconds from all going terribly wrong.
It played out in my mind’s eye. Montgomery standing up to his father. Saying that no, that this was barbaric and twisted. Then we’d both be thrown out of the trials and then what?
I’d go back to Nowhere, Georgia, with no money and no future.
And Montgomery. His father would win. I didn’t know all the stakes, but I did know that Montgomery would get his father’s company if he completed these tests successfully.
