Even Sam drops her gaze at that. “All the brothers have them. The way the Fathers raise the Sons…,” she trails off. “It’s not gentle or kind.”
“Carrson has it the worst, though,” Cicley says quietly. “It’s like his father hates him.”
“Jackson’s not far behind,” Abbie adds. “We’ve all seen his scars.”
Samantha frowns. “What does it say, that the boys who were beaten the most are the ones who rise the highest?”
Silence follows, heavy. Each of us caught in our own dismal thoughts.
Finally, Cicley breaks it. “Being a Daughter isn’t easy. Our mothers expect obedience, success, but at least they don’t usually beat us.”
Abbie shoots Cicley a sharp look. “The Fathers have to be like that. They’re raising the Sons to inherit the earth.” She lifts the necklace she wears every day, a symbol like a cross but with bars of equal length instead of the traditional longer vertical. It’s the same symbol branded into Carrson’s shoulder, Samantha’s chest. It dangles between her fingers, “It’s ordained by God himself.”
Slowly and deliberately, she touches her forehead, her chest, her left shoulder, then her right. Her voice is low, solemn, reverent. “In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son, and the Daughter.”
A cold shiver slides down my spine. Something about the way she says it, ritualistic, practiced, like she repeats it every day, makes my skinitch.
On the other end of the table, Sam rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind Abbie. She’s very religious.”
“That’s, uh…not a religion I’m familiar with,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, even though it feels like I’ve just stepped into an ocean with no bottom, murky, dark, full of things I don’t understand.
Carrson’s been shielding me, I realize. Deliberately keeping certain truths tucked out of sight. Now I’m wondering, has he been hiding them from me or also from himself? Does he believe in all this? Does he think this is normal? How indoctrinated,exactly, is he?
“I was wondering about Carrson,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. Gentle. Like I’m not prying too hard. “Has he always been…into this? Like the rest of you?”
Sam answers immediately. “Of course. His dad is the High Father. Carrson’s bred to take his place.” A glint flickers to life in her eyes, sharp, knowing, and cruel. “You should’ve seen him back in the day. Carrson used to fuck anything on two legs.”
“What?” There’s a roaring in my ears, like blood rushing too fast.
I want her to stop.
I need her to keep going.
Sam’s gaze sharpens. She’s studying me, measuring every twitch of muscle, every emotion in my eyes. I try to keep my face blank, but it’s harder than it should be, especially when she adds, “He was notorious for going to the brothels. Taking two, sometimes three, women at once. Everyone knew it.”
My stomach twists, but I keep my voice even. “Brothels?” The word tastes sour in my mouth.
Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “What, you didn’t know? The Fathers run them. Whorehouses. Strip clubs. It’s not like they hide it.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. Her tone is smug. She’s pleased to know something I don’t. “The main ones are in the city, over in Ashport, about an hour from here. That ritual I just told you about, when the Sons turn fifteen and cut their palms, it’s an initiation into manhood. We don’t know all the details, but it ends with the boys being taken to the prostitutes. That’s how they lose their V-cards.”
I feel nauseous, but Sam’s not finished.
“Carrson didn’t stop there,” she goes on, her voice dropping into something darker, almost gleeful. “He used to bring town girls to parties. Do them in front of everyone. We all saw it.”
I look to Cicley, sure Sam is exaggerating, but Cicley is blushing, unable to meet my eyes. She gives a faint nod, and my stomach sinks. I shouldn’t care about what Carrson used to do. Hell, I shouldn’t care about what he does now, but somehow I do, and this story makes me want to throw up. I feel sick. Embarrassed. Angry. Jealous?
Abbie must sense my distress. “Don’t worry, Laurel,” she rushes in with reassurance. “He doesn’t do any of that now. About a year ago, that all stopped. Now he won’t go to the whorehouses when the other guys do. At first, they gave him a ton of shit about it. He had to fight even more than usual, but that’s died down. With you two bonded, well, people are more accepting. Everyone figures he’s getting what he needs from, uh…” She fidgets, turns pink, then whispers, “From you.”
Oh. That’s right. As his Bonded, everyone assumes I’m Carrson’s personal sex toy. That we’re going at it every single night, something that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I still sleep naked next to him, but he’s never touched me.
Not once.
Not that I want him to, right? Do I? God. I don’t know, because sometimes when I’m drifting off to sleep, when the line that separates fantasy from reality thins, becomes blurred, I think about it. How it would be between us.
Sometimes I picture violence.
Sometimes tenderness.
Sometimes I imagine him dragging the truth out of me with his mouth, his hands, his body, until I stop pretending I don’t want any of it.
