Page 27 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“She’s not your Bonded,” he whines. “You haven’t done the ceremony.”

I light up the blowtorch again and hold it where he can see it. “What’d you say?”

“I mean.” He licks his lips. “You bonded her verbally.”

I move the flame closer.

“Which is just as good,” he rushes out. “Yeah, totally. She’s your Bonded.”

“I’m so glad we established that.” I turn off the blowtorch with a click.

For once, Jackson’s right. The ceremony won’t create the bond. It will only make The Order acknowledge what already exists.

Jackson lets out a whoosh of air, his body relaxing into the mattress.

I pick up the healing spray.

The mist settles over the wound, cool and nearly translucent. Torn skin draws together beneath it. The angry red edges pale, the lines close, and within minutes his side is unblemished except for the blood surrounding it.

The healing fascinates me every time I witness it. Flesh remembers the shape it held before injury and returns to it as though pain was never there.

People are less cooperative.

We may heal, but we always remember.

That's fine.

I want Jackson to remember every detail of today.

My pliers make a metallic click when I open and close them.

He looks toward the sound. “What’re those for?”

“The spray has limitations.”

I move to the foot of the bed and take hold of his right ankle. Jackson kicks, but the cuff prevents him from reaching me.

“It works beautifully on skin,” I explain. “Not so well on nails.”

“No.”

I grip the nail of his largest toe.

“Carrson, wait.”

I pull.

His entire body lifts from the mattress as the nail tears free. The scream that leaves his throat has no words. Blood beads at the exposed nail bed and runs down the side of his toe.

I hold the nail where he can see it, then place it on the pillow beside his head.

“That hurts,” he gasps.

I could have taken a fingernail. That would have carried more symbolic weight after he struck Laurel, but missing fingernails invite questions. Toes remain hidden inside shoes.

The second nail comes away less cleanly. Jackson begs while I work it loose, promising money, loyalty, votes, anything he believes an Ashford might value.

He can’t comprehend that there’s nothing he possesses I would exchange for Laurel. Not his loyalty, his family’s wealth, or the Beaumont influence Jack has spent years cultivating.