An hour ago, Carrson kissed that same spot and it felt divine, but this feels like a violation.
“Don’t touch me.” I yank my arm harder. It’s useless. He’s too strong.
“Oh, I’ll touch whatever I want. Whenever I want. You don’t seem to appreciate who I am. Who my father is, aSenator.”
“I couldn’t care less who your father is,” I snap. “All I know is thatyouare disgusting.” Anger thrums, pulses. I lean in, narrowing my eyes. “I know what you’re doing. To your Bonded. You hurt them.”
He’s shockingly unfazed. Like I just told him that it’s going to rain tomorrow. Jackson shrugs. “So what? There’s no rules about it. If anything, The Order says that a man’s Bonded are his property. To do with as he pleases. My girls like it rough, and so do I.”
My stomach turns over at that. At the outrightwrongnessof it.
“Not all men are like that,” I shoot back. “Carrson isn’t like that. He doesn’t treat me like cattle.”
His eyes light up, as if I just handed him a loaded weapon with ammunition to use against Carrson. “Then he’s being too easy on you. Spare the rod, spoil the woman. That’s what my father always says.”
I shake my head, wondering how I got into this funhouse of a world, where everything is familiar yet somehow twisted.
“That’s not how the expression goes,” I mutter.
Jackson just laughs. Low. Smug. He seems sure this is a game he’s already won.
My heart’s pounding, my mouth dry, but my mind is suddenly sharp. Cold. I stop pulling away and look him in the eye, letting my mouth curl into something that resembles a smile.
“You know what your father should’ve taught you?” I ask calmly.
“What?” heanswers.
“Never grab a woman who’s been trained to fight back.”
Before he can register the meaning, I bring my knee up, hard, right into his groin. As he bends forward, hinging at the waist, I drive my elbow down into his back, right between his shoulder blades, putting my entire weight into it. He lurches forward, his grip loosening enough for me to twist away. In that moment, I appreciate what Carrson’s given me, as he’s trained me relentlessly morning after morning. When he pushed me until I lay panting on the floor, swearing at him, hating him.
This,I see now, was what he was preparing me for, to meet my enemies and defeat them on my own terms.
To stop waiting for someone else to save me.
Carrson taught me to be my own hero.
Jackson is doubled over with pain. I step back fast. No one around us notices. They’re all too drunk, distracted. I look down at him, still hunched over, hand cupping the damage.
“You touch me again,” I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring through me, “and I’ll cut off your balls.”
In that moment, I’m so angry that I mean the violent thing I just said. I think of Staci with her bruises, the threats Jackson has made against me, the terrible things he’s done that I know about and the ones I don’t.
Maybe, in that moment, I think about Preston and prom night and how a part of me wants revenge for all that blood and pain, for the trauma that came after, for the tears that still comes on nights when I think Carrson is asleep so he won’t hear.
What if the only way to survive is to become the thing you hate?
Isn’t that what Carrson said to me, less than half an hour ago? At the time I ridiculed him for it. Now, the first trickle of doubt creeps in, winding its way through the cracks in my self-righteousness.
Before Jackson can recover, I turn. Shoulders squared. Spine straight. I walk away, fast but not running. I don’t look back. Instead, I head toward the other side of the room, where moonlight filters through stained glass, turning silver into ruby, cobalt, and emerald.
“Laurel! Over here!” Cicley’s voice cuts through the music, some song about heartbreak.
My mind’s still racing from the altercation with Jackson, but the sharper edge of panic dulls, slowly wearing off. I take in a steadying breath and spin in a slow circle, searching for her.
She’s waving from across the room, her arm stretched high. I wave back and push through the crowd toward her, like she’s a lighthouse in a storm. Abbie’s there, half-leaning against the back of a chair. Standing beside them, arms folded and jaw tight, is Samantha.
I hesitate when I see her, but I force myself forward.
