Page 102 of Wicked Salvation

But I do, and the moment I recognize her, my entire world goes red. My fists clench so hard my nails dig into my palms, but I barely feel it over the rush of blood pounding in my ears. She’s taking a curious path, and I know exactly where it leads.

His cottage.

So she’s been shacking up with him?

I won’t let her slip through my fingers again like that night in London. It was out of respect for her father that I didn’t follow her to her house and drag her out of it.

But she’s mistaken if she thinks Lucian will protect her.

I move before I think. Boots hitting gravel, breath sharp through my nose, heart hammering against my ribs. The very girl that I sacrificed it all for, that I performed ritual after ritual forjust to keep her, wants to reject me.

I’ll never allow it.

“Eden.”

She freezes, but she doesn’t turn right away. Her fingers are twitching at the sound of my voice. It’s good to know that she still fears me the way she should—the way a wife should. I caught her between two statues that cast long shadows over us.

She finally turns, slow and cold and perfect. Like she hasn’t been ducking me for days. Like she didn’t destroy me with a single flick of her fingers when she tore the ring off and dropped it like it was filth.

“What do you want?” she says.

Her voice is calm, even though she looks anything but.

She looks like a ghost of the girl I knew. Her caramel skin is dull, her lips pale and cracked. There’s a sheen of sweat on her temple despite the cold, and she moves like every step costs her something—like her body’s running on fumes and rage alone.

This is what it looks like when you break the ritual.

Oh, I already know.

That invisible thread that once bound her to me is frayed and flickering like dying candlelight. Whatever protection it offered, whatever balance it held, it’s gone now.

And without it… she’s unraveling.

I notice it all.

The breaths that come too fast and too shallow.

The circles under her eyes like bruised shadows.

The tightness in her jaw when she forces herself to straighten her spin.

She’s sick—and I’m almost certain she doesn’t know why. Just the thought of Lucian trying to nurse her back to health makes my whole body shake. But no amount of tea and medication can help her.

I hate that she still looks beautiful, like a marble-carved saint cracking from the inside out. The kind you bleed for just to feel worthy. The kind you destroy altars for.

And I would have.

Because if the ritual is broken?—

Then so am I.

It makes me want to scream.

I stalk toward her.

Controlled rage in every step.

Every muscle in my body is burning with it.