Page 40 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“Uh.” Dad opens his mouth, but no answer comes.

Behind me, Carrson has gone still. There’s no whisper of fabric, no scuff of shoes over polished linoleum. Even his breathing stops.

“Laurel.” Carrson says that single word, my name, with a voice tense and filled with warning. The sound makes the back of my neck prickle.

Dad’s eyes fly to the space above my head, and his fingers tighten around mine until the bones grind together. Before I can turn to see what scared him, a deep, familiar voice speaks behind me.

“Why don’t you tell her?” the man says. “Tell her the truth.”

Chapter nine

Five Days Until Bonding

Laurel

“Go on, Stanson,” Carr Ashford urges. “Tell her.”

I twist in my seat and find him standing beside his son, the two of them so similar it’s frightening. Like they belong in a dictionary under the words before and after.

“My dad’s name is Daniel,” I correct, but as the words leave my mouth, my stomach freefalls. Carr didn’t say Stanson like he was guessing. The name rolled off his tongue way too easily. Like he’d said it before.

Carr ignores me, all his focus on my dad. “How was Italy?” He smiles, but it’s fake pleasant. “Eat any good pizza?”

My dad pales. “Carrson.”

“Not Carrson anymore.” Carr places a firm hand on Carrson’s shoulder. From a distance, the gesture might look paternal. A father’s hand on his son.

Up close, it looks like ownership.

Carrson doesn’t move away, but every line of his body tenses under the touch.

“I have a son of my own,” Carr says.

“I see.” Dad’s gaze moves over Carrson’s face. “He looks just like you.” He clears his throat. “Or like you used to.”

“Wait, what?” I ask, struggling to catch up. “You know each other?”

All three men turn to look at me, two protective and one assessing.

Dad opens his mouth, but Carr answers first.

“Of course we know each other,” he says. “Stanson and I were boys together.”

My father doesn’t deny it. He only lowers his eyes, and the shame on his face tells me everything.

“Stanson Bellefleur. That’s his real name,” says Carr.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, the pieces of my life rearranging themselves.

Ashford University wasn’t bad luck. Ashfordville wasn’t a random town my father picked while drunk and grieving and desperate. The road that led me here wasn’t crooked by accident.

It was by design. My father coming home.

My last name isn’t even mine. Turner is a lie.

It’s Bellefleur.

Carrson sees the distress on my face. He moves a single step, or the beginning of one, but Carr’s hand tightens on his shoulder and stops him before he can reach me.