Page 11 of Wicked Salvation

At first, it doesn’t bother me.

Maybe she likes to pray before bed.

That’s never worked for me though, because I tend to fall asleep, so I pray in the mornings. Yet there’s something different about Anastazya’s prayers.

Her voice crackles over her Hail Marys, the rosary beads digging into her fingers, leaving bruises on her pale skin that I can see from this distance. How long has she been doing this? I can barely make out what she’s saying, but it’s a prayer for forgiveness.

I don’t interrupt her.

Instead, I slip over to my bed and back, then close the door and leave the Dormitory.

My feet lead me to the only safe place on campus.

III

LUCIAN

I’m lying on my couch, readingCrime and Punishmentby Fyodor Dostoevsky when I hear a knock on my door. It shakes me out of my analysis of the position posited by Dostoevsky—crime isn’t just an act, it’s a consequence of belief.

For a moment, my heart leaps.

Vivienne was the only person who ever visited me without asking. My door was always open to her, even though I never actually said it was. It just became a thing after we first met. Every now and then I’d let her borrow my place when she wanted an especially private moment with her partner.

Grief is a strange thing.

I saw them lower Vivienne into the ground.

And yet, somehow, deep down I’m hoping that when I open the door she’s standing on my porch—a book under her arm, in those baggy silk pajamas that she wore religiously because Marita got them for her as a gift, even though they were a size too big. Her hair tied up in a bun and held back by a thick headband, her eyes brimming with excitement about a thought-provoking question she wanted to discuss.

Vivienne isn’t standing at my door, of course.

It’s Eden.

I fold my arms, leaning against the door frame. Instinctively, I want to let her in—she’s always welcome. But something about her doesn’t lookright.I hate that I have to scan her to make sure she’s not hurt any more than she already was.

None of the bruises are fresh.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She stands here, arms in front of her. “I wanted to talk.” Her voice is small. “You’re the only person who’ll get it.”

I know I am, which is why she should be mine, instead of—his.There’s a small ache in my chest at the thought, but I shove it down. This moment is about her, not me.

“I want to talk too.”

I stand aside, allowing her to enter. I watch as she sits on my couch, takes a look at the cover of the book I’ve been reading, but doesn’t say much else. Eden just sits there, wringing her fingers and staring into the fireplace.

“Tea?”

She nods. “Yes please, thank you.”

When I return with the steaming cup, she’s hardly moved an inch. I set it down on the coffee table in front of us. I sit facing her, leaning against the back of the couch. I’m already dressed in the clothes I’ll be sleeping in—a black t-shirt and black sweatpants.

My arm falls along the back of the couch.

I wait till she’s taken a few sips?—

“So, what’s tonight’s topic of discussion?”