Page 11 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Fuck that.

I force myself still.

I remind myself of the damage he’s done to Carrson. Of the nightmares Carrson won’t talk about, the shadows and scars etched into him that come from this man’s hands. I think of those things, and I lock my body in place. Not a single twitch.

If Carr Ashford is stone, then I will be steel.

“Laurel?” The voice behind me is ragged.

I turn, and my hands fly to my mouth. Carrson’s lip is split and bleeding. Bruises bloom across his chest and stomach like dark, rotting flowers.

“Thank God you’re alive,” he mumbles, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. I can’t tell if it’s from his split lip or something deeper, more internal. He drags in one uneven breath, wobbles, and then collapses at my feet. Unconscious.

The whip hisses upward again.

I throw myself over Carrson, shielding his body with mine.

“What are you doing?” My voice cracks, but I don’t move.

Cold eyes rake over me. “Punishing my son for disobedience. And who, exactly, are you?”

“Laurel Turner.” Determined to stand up to this monster, I lift my chin.

“Ah yes.” Recognition lights his expression. He flashes a cold smile. “The source of all this trouble.” The whip moves back up. “Now get out of the way. He has ten lashes to go.”

I don’t budge.

No one moves. So many people, yet it feels like it’s only me and him, caught under a microscope.

“He’s hurt.” I keep my eyes fixed on Carr. “Your son needs help. Medical attention.”

“My son,” he says, “needs discipline.”

“I won’t let you touch him,” I grit out, meaning it with every cell in my body.

“What?” He scoffs. “Are you going to take his punishment for him?”

The words ignite something feral in me. A fury that straightens my spine. “I will,” I spit out, voice burning. “If you get a doctor.”

Carr Ashford’s mouth twists in disbelief. “Really?”

I’m already tugging down the straps of my tank top, letting it fall. A thin sports bra clings to my chest, flimsy armor against what’s coming.

The crowd presses in, waiting.

Carr lets the whip unfurl, the leather grazing the ground like a serpent testing the air.

At the sight, the fury that carried me between Carr and his son gives way. I don’t remember sinking to my knees. I don’t remember pulling Carrson into my arms, his head cradled in my lap. It’s as if I’ve slipped out of my body. I hover above, watching this moment unfold from a distant land, somewhere safe.

The whip falls.

The first strike pulls me back into my body with a wordless scream. Fire sears across my skin. The second blow is worse, icy, slicing, leaving me shaking so violently my teeth clack. On blow three, blood flows. It slicks my back, warm and sticky. The rest blurs into a rhythm of agony, each lash detonating through me until I spasm uncontrollably, like my body is wired into a live current.

Through it all, I force my gaze downward and anchor myself in Carrson. In the familiar angle of his jaw. The cut of his cheekbone. The curve of his lip. I count his eyelashes like rosary beads, praying to any god who might listen to show mercy. To deliver us from this evil.

I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I’m a liar. My tears rain down unchecked, striking his battered skin. They streak his cheeks as if they’re his own.

Time stretches until every lash feels like eternity. Then, the next one doesn’t come. Silence ripples outward, unnaturally hushed. The crowd, hundreds strong, stands frozen. I can feel their eyes on me, on the blood dripping down my spine, on the girl kneeling with the Ashford heir in her arms.