Page 122 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Some marks are deep and violent, gouged into the stone as though the person holding the blade wanted to wound the Vault itself. Nearby, faint scratches barely break the surface.

Letters appear among the images, drawn from languages I recognize and others I don’t. There are curved symbols, angular ones, and entire strings of characters that might form prayers, curses, or declarations of love. A few are written in English, mostly women’s names.

Ann.

Tabitha.

Elizabet.

Suzanna.

I carry the torch from one name to the next, searching for dates or repetitions, anything that might turn them into a story. Ann appears twice. Tabitha only once. Elizabet’s name ends abruptly, the final letter trailing into a shallow scratch as though whoever carved it was interrupted.

I wonder what made these women special enough to have their names placed here. Then I wonder if they died here, were murdered as a part of some dark ritual, and a chill goes through me, head to toe.

I try to arrange the symbols into a pattern. The moon beside the animal. The hand beneath the eye. Names surrounded by flames. None of it makes sense. Maybe I’m looking for meaning where there is none. People trapped in darkness will make patterns out of anything.

The torch sputters, so I lift it higher, but the flame shrinks as billowing black smoke curls into my face, leaving me coughing. I have enough time to return it to the bracket before the light gutters out.

Darkness devours the room.

Without anything real to see, other images rise in my mind. Memories from the battle.

The first time I saw Carrson, he was covered in another man’s blood. I imagined the violence that had put it there, but imagination softened the details. It didn’t show me how quickly he would move or how little space existed between recognizing a threat and ending it.

Upstairs, when he killed the men dressed as servers, blood ran from his dagger, but his face remained Carrson’s. The same mouth that kissed me on the dance floor. The same eyes that searched for me every time the crowd pulled us apart.

I used to divide him into pieces I could understand. The man who makes me laugh. The man I desire. The Ashford heir. The killer everyone warned me about. Now I see how useless those divisions are.

He is all of them.

Already I can feel myself reaching for reasons. They were armed. They came here to kill us. He did it for me. I stop, recognizing the pattern Carr lives by. The belief that love justifies violence.

It doesn’t.

At Sinners, I told Carrson I could love the dangerous, flawed parts of him. Now I know I meant it. Part of me should be afraid of him, maybe even revolted, but I’m not. I hate that he killed those men. I hate even more that he lives in a world where killing them was necessary.

If I can take away the danger, I can take away the need for him to defend himself, to protect me. It won’t change who he is, but it might finally give him a choice.

Then he won’t need to kill.

Whether he’ll still want to is a question I don’t let myself answer.

I lower myself onto the cold floor and wait for sleep, but it never comes. Every unfamiliar sound sends my heart racing. Each time, I expect the lock to turn, but the blackness remains absolute and the drip of water continues counting time for me.

Chapter thirty

Bonding Day

Laurel

When the light comes, I’ve been in darkness so long it burns my eyes. I sit up with a hiss and throw one hand over my face. Tears gather as I force my lids to open.

Sam crouches next to me and directs her flashlight down so it illuminates the ground. She’s changed out of the clothes she wore to the club. Now she has on a clean shirt and pants. No trace of blood or battle.

“Sorry,” she says. “You've been down here for two days. Are you okay?”

My eyes water as I scan her, searching for injuries and to see if she knows what I did, if she hates me, but all I see is concern.