“What if they don’t bond, don’t obey. Men or women?” I ask.
Thomson’s expression shifts. He doesn’t answer right away.
Finally, he says, “It hardly ever happens, but if it does they’re removed from the path.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“They lose everything. Their place. Their money. Their safety. They’re cut off, completely ostracized. Sometimes, it’s worse.”
“Worse how?”
He swallows. “They disappear…” His voice lowers to a whisper, “Never seen again.”
A cold wave rolls through me. My palms go clammy, breath catching in my throat. I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow the sudden spike of my heart rate. The stone bench feels harder beneath me now, like it’s digging into my spine.
“So basically,” I say slowly, “if you don’t play by the rules, you get ghosted by a secret society with unlimited power and no oversight.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just watches me with that same even gaze like I’m finally catching up.
I force a laugh, brittle and too loud. “Cool. That’s great.”
Inside, I feel like I’m unraveling. I thought this was some dark fraternity tradition, gross and patriarchal, sure, but now I’m realizing it’s more like a cult in designer suits. A cult that keeps score, that punishes disobedience with death.
Thomson leans toward me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying.
“That’s why Carrson keeps saying you have to obey him,” he says quietly. “If you don’t, it makes him look weak. Like he can’t control his own Bonded.”
He pauses, his gaze steady. “Carrson’s the best of us. Smartest. Most savage. Which makes him a target.”
A chill runs down my spine.
“These years in college, we call them the Battle Years. Anyone can challenge anyone. Fight for power. For position. Every single brother is watching, looking for a chance to knock Carrson off his throne.”
His eyes flick over me.
“You’re the perfect opportunity, the thing they’ve been waiting for.” The crease between his brows deepens. “You’re his weakness.”
Chapter twelve
Laurel
Classes end at four p.m. I’m exhausted, my brain still whirring from everything Thomson told me. More than anything, I want to go home, crawl into bed, and take a nap, but Ashford House is off-limits until five so Stevenson takes me to the Sisters.
Rosewood Hall waits at the far end of a long brick path, half-draped in the shadows of moss-hung oaks. It’s the graceful twin of Ashford House, larger, more delicate, more feminine. Where the fraternity juts up in sharp lines and peaked dormers, Rosewood curves and flows. Ashford has six columns that stand like soldiers. Rosewood has four, tall and slender, like finger bones wrappedin white silk. A wide veranda circles the house, its railings tangled in roses, red and white blossoms heavy with buzzing bees. Beneath the sweetness of petals, thorns gleam in the leaves.
As I approach, the wind shifts, and the air changes. I smell the roses, of course, but beneath there’s more. Honeysuckle. Damp stone. Burnt sugar. A trace of cigar smoke. The scents wrap around me, warm, strange, a little too sweet.
It’s beautiful.
It’s unsettling.
And I’m about to walk inside.
Stevenson uses the knocker.Bang. Bang. Bang.The sound echoes, bouncing off centuries-old stone. The front door creeps open, and a girl my age stands there blinking. She’s pretty. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles that splatter across her upturned nose.
“Hello, Cicley, may I have permission to enter?” Stevenson asks, overly formal. “I need to speak with Sam.”
Cicley’s eyes widen like this is something that doesn’t usually happen. She nods and steps aside, eying me curiously.
