The Ashbys won't let this stand. I know that. They don't surrender daughters to men like me.
Across the room, Savannah catches my eye. Holds it. Something passes between us—not a smile, something deeper. A recognition. A choice being made again, in real time.
I wonder if Savannah and I are writing the same tale now—outcasts by choice, marked by what we've chosen to love despite the cost.
I stand in the corner watching my brothers celebrate what they don't understand. They think this is about pussy or power—something simple. Something they can name. But what's between Savannah and me isn't just blood, or bone, or breath.
It's older than that. Deeper.
The beer bottle sweats against my palm, cold glass against hot skin. I take small sips, letting the bitter taste linger like the memories of The Pit.
It's just solitary.
But it's so much more than solitary.
The Pit is a darkness, an emptiness, a sense of being hallowed out.
But I never did mind that feeling.
I like the darkness.
We are Legion. We are many.
"So…." Ledger appears at my elbow.
"So," I offer back.
"It wasn't personal."
I look Ledger in the eyes. Shrug a shoulder. "I know that. You don't have to explain."
"I only voted no because… well." He blows out a breath. "It just doesn't add up, Legion. It doesn't. And it never will. I hope I'm wrong, I really do. But I don't think I am. So I voted no."
I take another pull from my bottle. "I understand."
He claps me on the back. "She's real pretty though. Not gonna hear me complain about having to see her face for the rest of my days." Then he walks off before I can respond.
I've spent most of my life being the demon they named me. The monster under Drybone's collective bed. But monsters serve a purpose too. They keep the real predators at bay.
My eyes drift across the room, pulled by the high whine of a tattoo machine. The sound cuts through the music and laughter like a blade through skin.
Savannah sits in Chains' chair, wrist held in his hand. Her face is calm, almost serene, as the needle pierces her skin again and again. I walk over, wondering what the hell is going on.
But I'm truly, truly speechless when I look down and see what she's getting.
PROPERTY OF DEMON is spelled out letter by letter in stark black, just above the raw circle of newly-scabbed skin from the restraints that held her prisoner just 24 hours ago.
Demon.
I'd rather wish it said Legion, but I guess they are one and the same.
Chains finishes with a flourish, wiping excess ink from Savannah's wrist.
Pride fills my chest, a heat that burns hotter than the infected brand beneath my shirt. This claiming goes both ways now.
My mark on her, her choice made permanent.
"There," Chains says, applying ointment and clear wrap. "Keep it covered for two hours, then wash with unscented soap."
