Page 113 of Wicked Salvation

Lucian looks like he’s been here for days.

One hand dangles loosely at his side. The other rests on the edge of my bed, fingers curled just inches from mine, like he’d meant to take my hand but wasn’t sure if he should.

I don’t know, but I know he’s here with me—that he’sbeenhere with me.

And the moment I move—the moment I breathe differently and the monitor makes a different kind of sound—his eyes snap open. They’re bleary and bloodshot, tired in a way that I recognize but can’t quite verbalize.

For one terrifying second, he looks disoriented, panicked. His eyes shoot to mine, but eventually he sees me,reallysees me. That’s when I see the panic turn into something else.

Relief.

He sits up fast, scraping the chair back with a sound too loud for the quiet room.

“Eden,” he says, voice raw.

He leans forward immediately, his fingers gripping mine like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard. His other hand cups my cheek with a reverence that makes my throat tighten.

I can’t help it.

The tears come before I can stop them. They’re silent and hot, streaming down my cheeks like they’ve been waiting behind my eyes for days.

Lucian goes pale.

Panic flickers in his expression, and then he’s crying too.

No theatrics. No dramatics. Just wet eyes, a trembling lip, and a boy who’s never let himself feel anything that might ruin him—finally letting himself break. He presses his forehead to mine, his hand still cupping my face like I’m the last thing in the world worth holding.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

My voice is barely there. It feels like I haven’t spoken in weeks.

He shakes his head fiercely. “No. Don’t you apologize. Please. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”

“I left without you,” I breathe. “I should have waited. I thought it would be fine.”

“I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve followed. I should’ve known. I should’ve known, Eden.” His voice cracks on my name.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” I whisper.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, guiltily “Youshouldn’thave made it. The doctors said you had lost so much blood that it was a long shot.”

I can feel it now that he mentions it.

The dull ache in my ribs. The sting of stitches. My arm bound in gauze, my side taped over. I feel broken and bruised—fragile.

“You got there,” I whisper. “You found me.”

“You smiled at me before you passed out,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Like you were saying goodbye.”

“I was.”

The silence swells again.

Then he breathes in sharply.

“I love you.”

The words land between us like thunder.