32. Bonding Day
Chapter thirty-two
Bonding Day
Laurel
At the end of the aisle, I look to Carr for instruction. He nods toward the dais, indicating that I should climb the three steps and take my place beside him in front of the altar.
I move toward him but halt when I see what rests on a small table nearby.
Inside a long, black, lacquered box rests a slender silver knife with a gracefully curved blade.
The words bond in blood are etched along its length.
The knife lies in a bed of strange, translucent material, too yielding to be plastic.
Its smooth surface catches the colored light reflecting off the stained-glass windows.
Silas’s voice fills my ear, as clear as if he’s standing beside me.
When Carrson bonds you, The Order ain’t giving you to him.
They’re taking from you.
Something precious.
Carr notices me staring. He removes the knife, slides the box behind him and out of view, then balances the dagger across his palms for my inspection, as though he’s proud of its history, its edge, and how easily it could end me.
The numbness cracks.
What if this ceremony is a lie? What if The Order never intended to bond me and brought me here as a sacrifice instead?
The altar is exactly the right size to hold my body while Carr opens my throat.
Maybe Carrson is part of it. Maybe they placed him in my path and taught him exactly what to say until I loved him enough to follow him here willingly.
Every horror movie I’ve ever watched suddenly feels less ridiculous.
The thought is irrational, and yet my lungs stop working. My chest heaves under the robe, desperate for breath that won’t come. Every insecurity I’ve ever carried rises at once, screaming that I was stupid to trust any of them.
I’m going to die in this room.
I know it.
“Laurel,” Carr speaks, his voice low enough that only I can hear, but so hard and biting it cuts through the roaring in my mind. “Laurel Turner.”
The sound of my name makes my head whip toward him.
“Snap out of it. You’re embarrassing yourself and our family name.”
Anger breaks through the chaos of my thoughts.
“You can fuck your family name,” I bite out. “You can go fuck yourself. I don’t want to die.”
Carr tips his face toward the ceiling and releases an exasperated breath. “Who said you’re going to die?”
“You’re going to murder me.” The accusation comes out tangled with a sob, but panic has already taken me too far to care how crazed I sound.
“If I did that, my son would kill himself. That’s what he told me.”
Everything stops.
“What?”
“He said he’d die if you died. That his life and yours are tied, and I believe he means it.” Carr lowers the dagger. “So I assure you, although you may wish for death after this, it won’t come from my hand.”
Carrson said that about me. He told his father our lives are tied. Not me, alone in our bedroom, where words can become larger than the world outside. He told Carr, a man who would recognize the declaration as both devotion and weakness.
My next breath reaches deep into my lungs, filling them with air. Carr doesn’t say when they had this conversation. It could have been yesterday. It could have been weeks ago, before people died because I saw Silas and kept silent.
Carrson may have believed our lives were linked then.
I don’t know what he thinks now.
My heart rate slows anyway. I still don’t trust Carr, but now I know killing me would mean risking the son he spent his entire life trying to preserve.
“Now, stand up straight,” he admonishes. “And for the love of God, never show weakness. They are waiting for the Ashfords to falter. Hold yourself as though we never do.”
Never show weakness.
The words are familiar. Carrson said the exact same thing before leading me into the ball, his hand firm around mine while Order members waited down the stairs.
I thought it was advice then.
Now I see it was inheritance.
Carr taught his son how to survive this room, and Carrson passed the lesson to me.
I release my grip on the belt, straighten my spine, and lift my chin. I will show Carrson I was listening.
The doors open again.
The entire room turns at once.
Carrson wears a robe like the rest of us, except his is the deep red of the roses lining the aisle. His shoulders are back and his chest broad, each step carrying the confidence of someone who expects the world to move out of his way.
No one speaks. Hundreds of people watch him cross the hall, but he gives no indication he notices them.
As he approaches, I search for his expression, any hint of what waits for me under the hood, but darkness conceals his face.
He could be looking at me with warmth or revulsion.
I have no way to know.
The uncertainty coils in my stomach, increasing with every step until my entire body strains to remain still.
Carrson climbs the dais and takes his place beside me. He does not reach for my hand or turn his head. He faces the crowd, leaving me to wonder whether the distance between us is part of the ceremony or something he chose.
Carr raises the dagger above his head. Light from hundreds of candles and torches bends across the blade as he turns it, setting the etched words briefly aflame.
“Mothers and Fathers. Sisters and Brothers. We gather today in a time of great sadness. We are under attack.”
I look toward the benches, expecting someone to weep or cry out, but every face remains composed. They are too disciplined to show grief, even if they feel it.
“Fear not,” Carr continues, his voice filling the hall. “We will fight back as our ancestors have so many times before. We will rise triumphant, as is God’s will. Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd answers.
Hundreds of hands rise together, touching forehead, chest, shoulder, and shoulder. The black mourning bands around their sleeves pass through the candlelight in one dark wave.
“Today, we witness the bonding of Carrson Ashford to Laurel Turner, heir to the Bellefleur line.” Carr lowers the dagger until the blade points between us. “Today they will bond…”
He stops before the final words.
“In blood,” the room answers.
The response crashes through the hall. Among the deeper voices, I hear Carrson’s southern drawl beside me and the higher voices of the Sisters rising from the benches.
Carrson’s voice mixes with hundreds of others, making him sound like part of the room too. A reminder that he belongs to The Order in a way I never will. That he belonged to them long before I met him. That he may belong to them long after I’m gone.
“Indeed.” Carr nods, looking pleased they’ve responded correctly. “After the bonding, we will perform an ancient ceremony, one not witnessed in generations. Carrson and Laurel will be sealed…”
I expect the answer this time, but my body still jolts when every voice responds.
“By sight.”
Carr smiles, his eyes moving over the faces before him.
“Bonded by blood. Sealed by sight.”
“Bonded by blood. Sealed by sight,” the crowd repeats.
The words come from hundreds of mouths with such perfect synchronicity that individual voices disappear. The Order speaks through them as one body.
“We honor our traditions through every generation so that our way will survive, prevail, and continue unbroken until our goal of perfection is achieved." Carr bows his head. "Amen.”
“Amen,” says the crowd. I find Abbie and Thom among the benches, each holding the cross of The Order like it’s a compass pointing them toward the righteous path.
Carr moves between Carrson and me.
This is it.
My heart beats so fast blood rushes in my ears. I peer into the shadows of Carrson’s hood, desperate for one glimpse of his face, one indication of what he’s thinking.
Does he want this?
Does he want me?
“Carrson, Laurel, remove your hoods,” Carr says.
I push mine back. Carrson does the same.
The hood falls from his face, but his expression gives me nothing. He has arranged every feature into perfect blankness, his attention fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder. He doesn’t glance at my necklace. He could be standing beside anyone.
My heart plunges. The answer is brutally obvious.
He doesn’t want me anymore.
I look over him again, searching for evidence of the battle. His face is unmarked, healed by Thom like Sam said, but his knuckles are swollen, the skin split and newly scabbed.
Interrogated. Yeah, right.
Carr raises the dagger between us. “Place your palms against the blade and clasp hands. Carrson will speak first. Then Laurel.”
I press my palm to the steel and curl my fingers around Carrson’s hand on the other side. The edge parts my skin before I apply any pressure. Blood slips down my wrist, runs beneath the white cuff, and blooms through the fabric, turning white to crimson.
“Speak the vow,” Carr commands, his voice carrying through the hall.
Carrson continues to stare over my shoulder.
“I, Carrson Rowe Ashford, under the laws of The Order, bond you, Laurel Ann Turner. In blood and will, I claim you as mine, bound to my name, my house, and my purpose. Your strength is mine. My power and protection are yours to bear. From this moment forward, we stand as one, unbroken, unchallenged, and unending.”
His voice is controlled to the point of lifelessness.
I had hoped the vow would bind us for life because he loved me. Instead, he makes it sound like duty.
Carrson finishes. Carr’s shoulders lower as he exhales. Relief softens his face, and he begins to turn toward me.
Carrson does not release my hand.
“Under the laws of The Order,” he continues, each word stronger than the last, “I invoke the right to a singular bond.”
Singular?
Carr rears back, horror wiping the relief from his face.
A single gasp passes through the hall, hundreds of people inhaling at once. Benches creak. Whispers break out through the rows.
Carrson continues as though none of it reaches him.
The blankness is gone. His eyes blaze with every emotion Carr taught him never to show. His fingers squeeze, crushing our palms harder against the dagger. Blood runs over the steel and gathers between our hands, red as the roses at our feet.