Page 132 of Pretty Savage: Defy

It lacks the perfect unity of their earlier recitations. Some members shout the words as though Carrson’s defiance has given them reason to celebrate. Others barely move their lips. A Father near the aisle refuses to speak at all.

Jack remains standing. “The bond may be complete,” he says, raising his voice, “but the ceremony is not.” His gaze returns to me. “The sealing has yet to be witnessed.”

My palm throbs against Carrson’s, our blood cooling between our joined hands.

Jack turns to Carr. “Unless your son’s singular-bond spectacle was intended to distract us. To make us forget that tonight requires two sacred rites, not one.”

The brief warmth inside me dies.

All the faces turn toward the altar.

The red light of the camera blinks.

Waiting.

**

Carrson looks to his father. “Please,” he says quietly. “Don’t make us do this.”

Carr’s expression changes. His hand lowers, and the High Father disappears. He looks at Carrson with concern, then at me, and hope rises in me.

He’s going to help us. He’s going to tell Jack no.

Then Carr looks past us to the rest of the room. To the people he leads, who now sit separated from their neighbors. Who glare across the aisle at one another in a way they didn’t do before. His shoulders square beneath the gray robe.

“The sealing will proceed.”

My shoulders hunch, even as I understand. Carrson’s solo bond has already cost the Ashfords two future alliances and divided the room. If Carr lets us refuse this too, he’ll appear incapable of controlling his own house.

I believed he would choose his son. Instead, he chooses the only way he knows how to love Carrson, by protecting him and preserving the Ashfords’ future.

Carr avoids our eyes as he lifts the box from the table and returns the blood-coated dagger to it. The glossy lining yields under the blade, allowing it to sink slightly before holding it in place. He fits the lid over the box and snaps it closed, sealing it away.

His hands remain on the lid for an extra beat, then he sets it aside and turns back to us.

“Laurel,” he says, his voice low with weariness. “Please take a seat.”

Carrson is the only thing I let myself see as I lower onto the edge of the altar. I face the crowd, which has gone so silent I can hear the torches hiss.

“Undress her,” Carr tells his son.

Carrson’s hand closes into a fist. His weight shifts forward, the muscles in his legs drawing taut as though he’s preparing to launch himself at his father, at everyone who insists on the sealing.

He can’t fight this entire room, but the look in his eyes tells me he’ll try anyway. I can’t let that happen. The Order may risk his life for their own selfish gain, but I never will.

I place my bloody hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head.

“I can do this. Let me,” I tell him. I don’t know whether it’s true, if I can go through with it. I only know what he might do if he believes it isn’t.

Carrson lowers his head. His eyes close, but not before the candlelight catches the wetness gathering along his lashes. He swallows, his throat working against whatever he wants to say.

“Okay,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. When he looks at me again, his eyes hold mine with painful intensity. “I’ll stop if you tell me to. At any point.”

“I know you will.” I try to smile, to reassure him, but my lips won’t cooperate. They tremble instead.

Carrson’s hands move to the belt at my waist. He works the knot loose with the concentration of someone disarming a bomb, then places his hands on my shoulders.