Chapter 43
Chapter forty-three
Hilt
Becky
An arm snaps around my throat and locks tight, cutting off my air. I’m yanked hard against a solid chest, my feet lifting off the ground as I’m dragged backward. The knife slips from my fingers and lands on the ground with a dull thud.
It doesn’t make sense.
Jackson’s still in front of me.
So what? Who?
I twist, craning my head over my shoulder.
The world drops out from under me. He’s the same height as Jackson but broader. Older, but not weaker. He has Jackson’s eyes. Jackson’s mouth, straightened into a thin unforgiving line.
I can’t smell the forest anymore. Just him. Imported cigars and expensive liquor. The scent of boardrooms, ink on contracts, deals sealed with handshakes. It fills my lungs, thick enough to choke on.
“Well,” he says with a sigh, like this is nothing more than an inconvenience. “That was unexpected.”
His attention goes to Jackson. I follow it and watch as Jackson goes pale, his eyes wide, fear stark on his face.
“Jackson,” the man says, disappointment dropping his voice. “Seriously? A girl?”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Jackson bows his head. “How was I supposed to know she’d find a knife all the way out here?”
His father exhales slowly, shaking his head.
I drive my heel back into his shin and get no reaction at all. Not even a grunt.
“Told you,” Jackson says from his position sitting on the ground. He’s recovered enough to sound smug. “She’s not easy.”
“No,” his father agrees, glancing my way. I shrink under that icy gaze. “She isn’t.” His grip tightens, just enough to make me gasp, hazy spots dancing across my vision. “But she’ll learn. They always do.”
Panic slams into me. I fight harder, kicking, twisting, clawing at his arm, but I might as well be hitting an oak tree. Something ancient and rooted that doesn’t move. Doesn’t feel. Doesn’t care.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my ear, a sound more terrifying than Jackson’s roar because it’s so much quieter. “Save your breath, Becky. You’re going to need it for the bonding.”
My strength ebbs, flowing out of me, used up. I stare down at my feet, bloodied and bare, dangling uselessly. My arms drop to my sides, my fingers twitching against the rough fabric of his suit.
Jackson’s father’s other hand rises into view, and the second I see the dagger in the black leather sheath, hope leaves my body.
I recognize it immediately.
The Latin inscription along the sheath gives it away, bond in blood. It’s the blade I saw before, in Carrson’s basement, in the room he called the Vault, where the air smelled like mold, metal, and blood.
Jackson sees me staring at the knife. “Don’t worry,” he calls out, dragging himself across the ground toward me, his injured leg trailing behind, leaving a dark smear in the dirt. “It’s not to hurt you, Becky.”
The way he says my name, almost tenderly, makes my skin itch.
“I’m going to bond you,” he adds, as if he’s offering me something good. Like I should be grateful. “Then we can be together.”
“I’d rather bleed out, right here in the dirt, than be yours,” I snap. Probably not the smartest move, given the circumstances, but it’s the truth.
Behind me, his father lets out a quiet, amused breath. “I told you, Son,” he says to Jackson. “She’s outsider trash. Doesn’t understand what an honor it is.”
His grip tightens just enough to remind me how completely trapped I am, and his mouth moves to my ear, reeking of Scotch whiskey. “I told him not to do it. That you’re not worth wasting one of his bonded spots on. He only gets three.”
Three.
Something about that number resonates, echoing through my memory. I know I’ve seen it before, but where?
“What do you mean three?” I ask.
Jackson’s father answers like it’s obvious. “Each man in The Order is allowed to bond up to three women. It’s our right.”
Of course.
The list on Carrson’s computer. The names. Each man followed by three women. It makes sense now. Those women weren’t just listed. They were bonded. Claimed. Owned.
We cut our palms. Both of us. That’s what Lou told me when she talked about it.
My eyes go to the knife. That’s what it’s for. Jackson wants to bond me, and, if he does, I’ll be his. Forever. I don’t understand everything, but I have a feeling even Carrson can’t break a bond. Which means if Jackson is successful, I don’t just lose my freedom. I lose Carrson.
My panic doesn’t disappear, but it solidifies and turns dangerous.
There’s too much at stake here for me to give up.
My lungs burn as I force myself to draw in a slow breath around the dryness in my throat, testing the hold Jackson’s dad has on me, feeling where his arm presses and where it loosens just slightly when I move.
He’s strong.
But he’s not invincible.
Jackson keeps talking, something about how this will work, how I’ll understand eventually, his voice grating, distant, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. I let it blur, let him think I’m frozen, still trapped in that first wave of fear.
I’m not. Not anymore.
I let out a breath and force my body to go slack. I sink down enough for my foot to touch the ground briefly. I extend my toe, searching, testing for something solid, leverage. My fingers curl, my shoulders drop as I release more air from my lungs, ignoring the burn.
There.
A small opening when the grip on me loosens. I prepare myself, ready to push off my foot and launch into motion.
That’s when Carrson enters the clearing.
He strolls in, as if he’s out for an evening walk, with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“Jack.” He gives a small nod to the man holding me, then glances down at the ground. “Jackson.”
He doesn’t even look my way.
What the fuck? Is he still mad at me?
“What’re you doing here, Carrson?” Jackson hisses, his mouth twisted into an unhappy grimace.
“I think a better question is, what are you doing?” Carrson moves toward Jackson, walking at a leisurely pace.
“Go away.” Jackson’s scowl deepens, his eyes burning. “Becky’s mine.”
“Well, that’s a problem.” Carrson’s reached Jackson now. “You see, she’s actually mine, and I’m terrible at sharing.”
One second he’s standing there, the next his hand is at the tree, ripping the last dagger free, and then it’s coming down, moving so fast it blurs, the motion fast and brutal. He hits Jackson on the back of the head. The impact lands with a dull thwack.
Jackson drops instantly, his body collapsing forward, face-first into the dirt.
My mouth drops, my eyes round, as I stare stunned at Jackson on the ground.
At first, I think he’s dead, that Carrson’s driven the blade straight into Jackson’s skull. Then Carrson steps back, and I see it. The dagger is reversed in his grip. He used the hilt. Enough force to knock Jackson out cold, but not enough to kill him.
I don’t know if that makes it better. Or worse.
The arm around my throat tightens painfully. I choke, my hands clawing at Jack’s forearm, my feet kicking uselessly against the ground as my body strains for air. He eases his grip by an inch, barely, but it’s enough to drag in a desperate breath.
“That was stupid,” Jack says, his voice flat against my ear, like he’s commenting on something trivial instead of his son lying motionless in the dirt. “But then you’ve always been impulsive, Carrson. Ever since you were a child. Always acting before you think.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, dry and grating, close enough that it vibrates through me. I try to pull away from the sound and can’t.
“Nothing’s changed,” Jack goes on. “My son will wake, and he’ll have her.” He gives me a small, careless shake.
Carrson smiles at that, a look that says he’s already two steps ahead. “Not if I bond her first.”
It’s only because he’s holding me that I feel it, the change in Jack’s body, the momentary stiffness that betrays him.
His voice doesn’t. “You can’t,” he says calmly. “You don’t have a father to perform the ceremony. You killed yours, remember?” He lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that. It made my life so much easier.”
“You’re right. I don’t have a father.” Carrson shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to do.”
Jack laughs for real this time, the sound lifting his chest against my back. “I won’t help you.”
“Really?” Carrson raises a single eyebrow. He drops to his knee, next to Jackson’s unmoving form. His knife goes to Jackson’s neck, over his carotid. “Not even to save your son?”
The arm around my throat is still tight, still stealing my air, but it’s no longer careless. Before, Jack held me without thought, easy to use and then discard.
That’s gone.
Now his grip shifts, loosening just enough to let me breathe. Oxygen rushes back into my lungs and, with it, clarity. I see it then. Carrson’s brilliance. He hasn’t just knocked out Jackson; he's rewritten the board.
The math is now brutally simple.
If Jack kills me, his son dies.
If Jack lets me go, he’s outnumbered. Carrson and I join forces. Together, we can overpower him.
Carrson’s got Jack backed into the corner.
I grin. For the first time since he entered the clearing, Carrson’s eyes dart to mine. It’s only a split second, but it’s all we need. I know just from that glance. I can see it. The exact moment Carrson planned this, the move behind the move, the outcome he’s already counting on.
We’re not guessing. We’re not reacting. We’re thinking in perfect unison. As a team.
Power surges through me, chasing away the last of the fear. I’m not a victim waiting for a rescue. I’m a weapon waiting for the signal to unleash.
The grip on my throat is still there, but the leverage is gone. Jack hesitates, his mind racing to find a third option that doesn't exist.
Carrson holds out his hand, sticks it high in the air, his other hand keeps the knife steady on Jackson.
“Bond us,” he commands Jack. “Now. Or your son dies.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” says Jack, but there’s a slight waver to his words, as if he’s not completely confident.