Page 12 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Carr studies me with an expression caught between disdain and intrigue. The whip dangles at his side, glistening scarlet at the tip.

“You bleed for him.” His voice is low, yet it carries, echoing through the vaulted hall.

My body trembles, but my voice stays steady. “Yes.”

A murmur stirs in the crowd, like wind slicing through dead leaves. Brothers avert their eyes. Sisters clutch each other’s hands. At the front of the crowd, Samantha stands next to a beautiful woman with her same strawberry blonde hair and aqua blue eyes. Her mother, it has to be. The woman clutches Sam’s arm as if she had to physically hold her back during my whipping. Sam’s face is chalk pale, streaked with tears.

“Tell me,” Carr asks, drawing my gaze back to him. He points at Carrson, using the whip. “Does my son’s blood call to you? Does your blood sing in return?”

I tilt my head, remembering that I’ve heard those terms once before. A month ago, a Sister had mentioned feeling that way about a Brother she loved, a man she wanted to bond with.

“I—it does—I do?” I answer hesitantly, not exactly sure what to say. If he’s asking if I’m attracted to Carrson, if I feel a pull toward him, the answer is a resounding yes, but I’m not sure if it’s safe to declare that here. Am I putting us in more or less danger by being honest?

He’s facing away from the crowd, so I’m the only one who sees the mix of emotions that passes over his face. First suspicion, mistrust, followed by surprise, and finally, calculation. Carr smiles, wide and brilliant. Not sincere, but close enough to fool most. He pivots until he’s facing the entire hall. Then he lifts his arms high, whip dangling from his fist, like a priest offering benediction.

His voice booms through the hall. “Rejoice, Brothers and Sisters. Mothers and Fathers. We have a bonding, true and pure.”

A murmur spreads through the crowd as Carr’s statement is met with conflicting emotions. Some people clap, press their hands to their chests and speak excitedly with their neighbors. But not all are convinced. I see the distrust, the envy, the anger curdling in their faces. The word “outsider” reaches my ears, whispered on the winds of their contempt.

I kneel here, bloodied and trembling, Carrson in my arms, and still, I don’t belong. I’ll never belong.

Carr claps his hands together, just once, and the crowd falls silent.

“In one week’s time, we will reconvene here for the official bonding ceremony.” His smile turns benevolent. “The evening before, a prebonding ball will be held at my estate. All are invited. Let us come together and commemorate yet another step on the path to perfection.”

The crowd’s murmur is happier after that announcement. Apparently even bloodthirsty secret societies love a party. Two women glide to Carr, one on each side, and hook their hands through the crooks of his arms with practiced ease. They’re beautiful, eerily alike: long, pin-straight black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, bodies carved to perfection. They look so similar they have to be sisters, not capital-S Sisters like the Rosewood Hall sorority, but sisters by blood.

Carr starts to lead both women away, but before they can leave a man’s voice rings out.

“I demand the bonding be sealed.”

Carr freezes. A grimace flashes across his face before he schools his expression and turns to the speaker.

“Jack.” Carr says the name stiffly. The man stands at the front of the crowd, tall and commanding, a deep scowl etched across his face. A face that’s all too familiar, because if Carr is an older version of Carrson, then this man is Jackson all grown up.

“No one seals a bonding these days,” Carr says with an impatient shake of his head. “It’s an outdated tradition.”

“Bonded by Blood. Sealed by Sight,” Jack recites, scripture-flat. Several heads behind him nod in agreement.

“I’m familiar,” Carr huffs, practically rolling his eyes. “The last one was in the early 1800s.”

Older Mothers and Fathers shift, their eyes moving between the two men.

“As you know, it’s in our bylaws and well within my rights to demand it.” Jack raises one eyebrow.

Carr’s fingers close around the handle of the whip, but he offers no rebuttal. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll perform the complete ceremony. In one week, back here.”

With that, he whirls and strides past me without a glance.

A week.

Seven days until the bonding. Until whatever sealing means.

Seven days until The Order decides my future.

I look down at Carrson and wonder if either of us will survive it.

Laurel protecting an unconscious Carrson. Art by: Momo Mitsuko