Page 84 of Pretty Savage: Defy

“Okay,” Carrson tells him. “We’re coming.”

Carrson helps me into the high heels that make me wobble, even though Sam has spent the past three days making me practice in them. At the doorway, he holds out his elbow. I take it, leaning on him for balance.

“Do you have your mask?” he asks.

I tap the small purse that dangles on a string from my wrist. “Sam said not to wear it right away. That it’s only for the dance after dinner.”

“That’s right.” He squeezes my arm, then leads me forward.

The live orchestra and overlapping voices grow louder with every step toward the main staircase. My apprehension rises with them until I’m gripping Carrson’s arm hard enough to make him wince. Every breath pulls the bodice tight against the brand, so I keep them shallow.

As we take the first step, he lowers his mouth near my ear.

“Remember, never show weakness.”

On the third step, he adds, “Always establish your dominance.”

Halfway down, he says, “Your mind is your sharpest weapon.”

The ballroom opens below us.

Men and women in tuxedos and glittering gowns crowd the floor, champagne glasses in hand. Rolexes flash under the chandeliers. Diamonds as large as hummingbird eggs hang from throats and ears. Hundreds of faces turn toward us, which are just the people who can fit in this room. There are more guests waiting in tents outside.

My chest constricts, making each breath scrape across my ribs.

“One last thing,” Carrson says as we reach the bottom. “Trust no one.”

Before the warning can spike my panic, he turns and sweeps me into his arms, bending me backward over his supporting arm.

“Except me.”

Then he kisses me.

Long and deep, right in front of everyone. My fingers curl into the front of his jacket as the room disappears. The watching faces. The whispers.

He kisses me until the only thing making me breathless is the movement of his lips against mine.

When he draws me upright, his fingers pass over the necklace at my throat before he turns us toward the crowd.

Everyone erupts.

People whistle, cheer, and shout with far more enthusiasm and considerably less dignity than I expected from anyone dressed this well.

Carrson steps forward with one arm around my waist and the other raised above his head. The prodigal son has returned, and they love him for it. Men crowd around to slap him on the back. Women flutter at his elbow, eager for a smile or a word. Through it all, he keeps me tucked close to his side.

Introductions are made, names passing by so numerous and quick that they all begin to blur. A few stand out. A prominent Supreme Court judge. The Irish ambassador. The freaking Vice President of the United States.

I try not to gape when he lifts my hand and presses his lips to the back of it.

“Lovely to meet you, Miss Bellefleur.”

Bellefleur.

That’s what they all call me, as though the past twenty years of my life as Laurel Turner were a dream and the only part that matters began when they decided I belonged to them.

After he leaves, I press my mouth close to Carrson’s ear. “The President?”

“He couldn’t make it tonight.”