Chapter 11 #2
“No.” Thomson shakes his head, jaw tight. “Carrson had to do that. The man was part of a rival gang called the Jackals. They’re our biggest competition in the drug and weapons trade.”
I just blink at him, trying to process the words drug and weapons trade being spoken so casually.
“For the past month, they’ve been selling a batch of cocaine laced with fentanyl,” he continues. “Two kids overdosed. One was only fifteen.”
My stomach turns.
“That guy, the one you saw, gave us intel on the stash location but Carrson had to beat it out of him. Once that happened…” Thomson exhales, his gaze flicking to the shadows as if someone might be listening.
“We couldn’t let him go. If word got out that we tortured a Jackal, it would’ve started a war with their leader. Silas Creed.”
The name hangs there, heavy.
“He’s not just clever. He’s a ghost. We can never catch him, never pin him down, but somehow he always knows what we’re up to.
He’s a bloody son of a bitch. A war with him?
Sure, we would’ve won, but it would have been messy, noisy.
Can’t exactly stay a secret society if we get splashed across every media outlet. ”
My throat goes dry.
“So we staged it,” he finishes. “Made it look like that guy stole from them and ran. For now, they bought it.”
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this, gang wars, secret societies, cults. It’s all too much, but I can’t stop now. I steady my breath, blink hard, and ask the next question.
“If you’re like a secret society, or maybe not-so-secret since everyone in town knows, do you have rituals?” I ask. “Sacrifice goats? Chant in Latin? That kind of thing?”
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “No goat blood. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.”
That anyway makes something sharp prickle at the back of my neck.
“There are rituals,” he admits, his voice low. “Latin is involved, but a lot of the old ones have been retired. Or so they say. Others we’re not allowed to know about yet. Not until we’ve proven ourselves.”
“What kind of rituals?”
Thomson shakes his head. “That’s the thing. No one really talks about them. Not unless you’ve been initiated into that level. Some of the older guys know more, but they keep it secret. It’s more in the things they won’t say that gives us an idea of what’s coming.”
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
Thomson glances sideways at me. “The few we do take part in? They’re more about pushing us past the edge. Loyalty rites. Endurance trials. Punishments.”
“Punishments?” I whisper.
He gives me a look. One that says you don’t want to know.
My mind flashes to the scars on Carrson’s back. Raised. Jagged. Precise.
The silence stretches, thick and uneasy, so full I feel it pressing against my skin. Suffocating me.
Finally, I speak. “These rituals,” I ask cautiously, “they’re just for the Sons? Or do they involve the Daughters too?”
His gaze sharpens.
“Some of them,” he says. “Especially the older ones.”
Something in the way he says older ones makes my stomach twist.
“The bond,” I press. “That’s a ritual too, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says slowly, like he’s weighing every word.
I lean in. “What is it? Do I have to do it?”
“It involves blood. Human, not goat. It’s a blood oath between the bonded,” he mutters.
“The Father performs it, but Carrson’s father is busy.
There’s a chance you won’t have to do it, not unless his dad comes back into town.
” He stares into the distance. “There’s a second part to it, but so ancient no one really does it anymore.
My dad let it slip out once, when he was drunk. ”
“What’d he say?” I ask.
“‘Bonded in blood, sealed by sight.’ That’s all he said.”
Bonded in blood.
Sealed by sight.
The words land like a chill down my spine.
My stomach flips. I taste something metallic at the back of my throat.
Seeing my face, Thomson rushes to explain. “It’s ceremonial. Obsolete. I do know for that version, everyone’s supposed to attend, the Fathers, the Mothers, the full High Council, but no one has time to fly in for some ancient rite when they’re too busy running corporations and rigging elections.”
I try to ignore the way my hands have gone clammy. “What about Carrson?” I ask, my voice barely audible. “Why is he so obsessed with me…” I swallow hard, “obeying him?”
Thomson doesn’t answer right away.
“Sons bond Daughters,” he says finally. “Very rarely, we bond outsiders like you. But only after we’re sure the outsider can adapt to our lifestyle. That they can be trusted.”
He gives me a long look then. Like the verdict’s still out on whether I can be trusted.
“You mean they get engaged? Like to be married?”
He shakes his head. “No. Marriage comes later, if it happens at all. Bonding isn’t always romantic.
Sometimes it is, two members falling for each other, choosing to be bound, but more often, it’s strategic.
Calculated.” His mouth twists. “Sex is part of it, sure, but not for love. It’s about control.
Power. It’s meant to forge loyalty between the male and female sides of The Order. It strengthens The Order as a whole.”
“Strengthen how?”
“Once a woman is selected by a Son to bond,” he says carefully, “she becomes his to do with as he pleases. In return, he takes care of her. Provides for her. Protects her.”
“Protects her from everyone but him,” I snap, the words tasting like acid.
Carrson’s voice echoes in my mind: I can fuck you, beat you, betray you.
Thomson winces. Then nods. “We try to keep things under control, but sometimes…they slip.”
“Women get hurt,” I finish for him, stomach twisting. “Why would anyone want a setup like that?”
“Because that’s how they become Mothers.” His voice is quieter now. “Every Son wants to become a Father. Every Daughter wants to become a Mother. That’s when the answers come. The real power. The legacy. It’s revered, to raise a child in The Order.”
My skin crawls.
“When a Son decides to become a Father, usually around thirty, his Bonded can be elevated to Mother, but only if he recommends her. Then they each get to have a child.”
“A child together?”
He shakes his head. “They each get their own, and that’s how we keep our numbers steady. The Father always has a Son. The Mother always has a Daughter. Once the Mother has the baby, she moves into her own place to raise the child while the Father stays in his house to raise his Son.”
“But you can’t determine a child’s gender. It’s not like you get to choose,” I argue, quick to point out the flaw in his explanation.
Thomson shrugs. “I don’t know how they do it. IVF, maybe? Fertility treatments? There must be surrogates involved because we never see them pregnant. The Mothers and Fathers disappear for a few weeks, and then they come back with a baby like it’s magic or something.”
He pauses, his brow furrowing like he’s still trying to make sense of it.
He shakes his head and exhales, sharp and frustrated.
“The result’s always the same,” he says quietly.
“Every Father gets a Son. Every Mother gets a Daughter.” Another pause.
“They each take the child back to their houses. The Mother’s house and the Father’s house. ”
My stomach flips. “You’re all raised separately by design.”
He nods. “They tell us we’re not related. Just to be safe. You know…incest.”
We both make the same face, sour, nauseated, I might throw up faces.
“No incest. Even for us,” Thomson mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Besides, The Order wouldn’t allow it. It would weaken the gene pool.”
We sit in silence for a beat. The air feels heavier now, like the weight of everything he’s said is still settling.
Thomson adds, “There’s more to it, but that’s probably all you need to know since you’ll never get to that stage.”
I’m quiet, thinking it all through. “The Daughters, they want to be bonded, don’t they? So they can eventually become Mothers. That’s when they finally get their own life. Their own space.”
“Right. They hold jobs. Own their homes. Full independence from the men, but only once they’ve earned it.”
“Earned it by obeying,” I say.
He doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t have to.
“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.”