Page 118 of Wicked Salvation

“There’s no going back,” he says.

“I don’t want to.”

His gaze flicks to my wrist, to my tattoo. My eyes flick to his, then back at mine.

I stare down at the thin black letters just above the inside of my wrist, curved like a brand: DAMNATION. His word is SALVATION.

Same place. Opposite arm.

Same pain. Different truth.

The words couldn’t have been more true.

To the old Eden, Lucian means damnation. But the new Eden, the one who went through hell and back, well, she knows the truth. He’s my salvation.

We’re two souls who refused to burn alone.

He pulls me tighter into his arms.

“Welcome home,” he says.

Tears well in the corner of my eyes because I realize just how much I believe it. And it’s not because someone told me I should. No, it’s because I actually feel it.

Home isn’t an estate, or even a flat.

No, my home is a person.

It’s him.

And tonight, in this little flat with nothing but bookshelves, a mattress, and our bruised bodies—I finally belong.