3. Six Days Until Bonding #2
“She is.” A smile touches his mouth and disappears just as quickly. He studies the apple in his hand before speaking again. “If, and that’s a very large if, any of what you say is true,” he continues, “it might be best to keep it to yourself. Samantha and Thomson can be trusted to keep quiet?”
I nod.
“Good. If Jack learns his son is working with Silas, he’ll call you a liar.
It’ll be your word against Jackson’s, and everyone will believe the Beaumonts over you, an outsider.
” A faint wrinkle dents his brow. “For now, say nothing. At least until we know more about Silas’s agenda. He’s a slippery fish, that one.”
He’s pensive for a moment, thinking. Then his gaze drops. I follow it and only then notice I’m holding Carrson’s hand, our fingers laced. I hadn’t realized I’d done that, just reached for Carrson on instinct. Physical proof I wasn’t alone.
“You love my son?” A slice of apple is in his hand. He holds it up, offers it to me like communion, but I don’t trust him. Kindness is not this man’s strength, which means the apple is a test.
I shake my head no to the apple.
The corner of his mouth rises.
“We haven’t used that word yet…” I swallow, but I don’t have to look into my heart to find the truth; it’s been there a long time. “Yes. I love him.” Bitter irony, saying it to his father first.
Something passes over Carr’s face, soft, almost sad. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “Tell him,” he says. “He’ll like that.”
The words make my temper spark. Him, of all people, lecturing me about what Carrson needs. “He hasn’t gotten much of that from you,” I say. “Love, that is.”
His glare is instant and cold enough to make me flinch. “You think I don’t love my son?” he grits out. “After everything I’ve done for him? All I’ve sacrificed?”
“What?” I bark. “All you’ve given him are nightmares and scars. If that’s love, keep it.”
“You know, if anyone asked me if I’ve ever been scared, I’d say no. The truth? Two things frighten me.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “One: that The Order fails and I never see our work come to fruition. Two: that I outlive my son. Those, Laurel, are my greatest fears.”
He lets the apple and the knife fall to the table with a clatter and leans closer, eyes narrowed.
“Carrson was three the first kidnapping attempt. Six when I stopped a nanny on a rival’s payroll.
Freshman year he defeated Maxson and took leadership of the Brothers.
Sophomore year? Over two hundred challenges. Do you know what he did?”
I shake my head slowly, stunned by all the history I didn’t know.
“He won. Every. Single. Fucking. Battle. My son.” He stabs his thumb to his chest. “My son did that because I prepared him. He’s here because I taught him to survive.
If I’d coddled him, been soft with him, he’d be in the ground.
Dead. So don’t judge me, child, not until you’ve lain awake every night wondering how to keep him alive long enough to see his next birthday. ”
He finishes, chest rising and falling, eyes blazing. The apple lies between us, deformed, half-eaten, and suddenly I see it. How Carr has built a religion out of survival and called it love.
I look over at Carrson and my throat goes dry, thinking of all the near-misses, how easily I could have lived a life that never found him.
Is it possible in some warped way I have Carr to thank for that?
For the privilege of loving his son? But no.
I can be grateful that Carrson is breathing without justifying the abuse.
Can separate that enduring is not the same as being cherished.
I sit up straighter. “I have no doubt the world you live in is dangerous. That Carrson grew up surrounded by people who wanted to hurt him, but that doesn’t explain what happened downstairs.
” I gesture toward the door. “You didn’t whip him because someone tried to kidnap him.
You whipped him because he disobeyed you. ”
I think back to Silas on the bus with a needle in his hand. Carr in the dining hall holding a whip. Different stages. Different props. Men who need to control the story. Men who understand the power of an audience.
“What about me?” I shake my head. “That wasn’t protection either. That was a performance. A reminder to everyone watching.”
A smile spreads across Carr’s face. “Now you see it.”
I gape at him. I’d expected an argument, not for him to agree.
“Perception is everything. I did it to preserve the strength of the Ashford name, so Carrson has something left to inherit when I’m gone.
” He points a finger at me. “You have no idea what’s at stake here.
What Carrson’s defiance, what your puppy love,” disdain drips from the words, “has set in motion.”
“So explain it to me.” Frustration makes my voice rise. “What on earth could be worth humiliating your son? Hurting him?”
Carr leans forward with his elbows on his knees and drags both hands through his hair. “The Order is on the brink of civil war.”
“Civil war?” I furrow my brow.
He nods. “For centuries the Ashfords and Beaumonts have fought over what The Order should be. We agree on the destination. We disagree on how to get there.” A brief laugh escapes him. “Jack would tell you that’s a polite way of saying we hate each other.”
On that point, at least, we agree. I hate Jack and his son too.
“The Beaumonts want power. Wealth. Influence. They want the rewards of what we’ve built.” He reaches for the apple, then leaves it where it sits. “I want the future.”
I blink at the word. Future.
He gestures to the light over our heads and then to the lamp on the nightstand.
“You enjoy electricity? Modern medicine? The technology sitting in your pocket? Those things didn’t appear because politicians suddenly became generous.
They exist because generation after generation of Order members developed them, sacrificed for them. ”
He looks at Carrson, still unconscious.
“We’re supposed to plant trees we’ll never sit beneath. That’s the job. That’s always been the job.” He sighs. “Jack thinks that’s foolish. So do a lot of people. They want the fruit now.”
His attention comes back to me. “The Beaumonts are using Carrson’s infatuation with you as proof the Ashfords have lost control. That I’m weak. That my own son doesn’t believe in what we’ve built.” He rests his forehead on his hand. “The worst part is that people are listening.”
A knock sounds at the door.
Carr straightens immediately, irritation flashing across his face. “What?”
The door opens a few inches, and a woman’s voice answers, “Carr?”
Everything about him changes, the shift so brief I think I must’ve imagined it. The hard lines of his face soften. His shoulders loosen. Even his eyes look different, almost wistful.