Page 22 of Wicked Salvation

The conservatory tonight. Wear something I’ll like.

Ah,better.

That sounds more in control, more like me.

I rub my hands along my jaw, trying to ease the tension there. I’m thinking about taking a cold shower to clear my mind when?—

Knock, knock.

The sound echoes through my quiet room.

I frown. Cedric wouldn’t be back from class yet, and he wouldn’t knock either. Who in their right mind would come and knock atmydoor in the middle of the day?

I ignore it.

Knock, knock.

Persistent, are we? It’s most definitely not a nun, since only boys are allowed in this Dormitory. Which means it has to be somebody else that lives here. It could be Max or Alistair. But it’s weird of them not to call or text me first.

I stand slowly, rolling my shoulders back as I cross the room.

“Whatever you want it better be worth interr?—”

It’s not Max or Alistair.

It is Lucian fucking Beaumont.

He’s standing there, shoulders squared, eyes dark with something I have an intimate relationship with—rage.It’s not the kind that flares up and burns out. No, the kind that smolders. The kind that waits. Whatever he’s here for, it’s been pent up for a while.

I’m sure I know what this is about.

And I’m tired of it, actually. But I play along.

“To what do I owe this pleasure,” I say in amusement.

I lean against the doorframe for a bit, but then I straighten. He’s taller than me. Leaning makes me seem much shorter than him. I’m not—maybe one or two inches.

Lucian doesn’t speak, just staring at me with that inferno burning in his eyes.

I look down at my watch. “I don’t have all day, Beaumont.”

Finally, he exhales sharply, his lips curling into a snarl.

I’ve never seen him like this. It’s almost charming. I’d love to know what’s changed for him to think he can get what he wants by confronting me like this. Oh wait, I already know.

“Let her go.”

I laugh, slowly. There it is. “Ah, so that’s what this is about?”

Lucian’s vibrating with tension and thinly concealed rage at this point. I tilt my head. He’s on the edge. So close to blowing the lid, to exploding.

“Eden belongs to me.”

Pressure keeps building. “She’s not a possession for you to own.”

I take a step forward, closing the space between us. “And yet, here you are, confronting me in my own fucking dorm room, like she belongs to you.”

“Peregrine-Ashford, I know what you are.” His voice is a low growl hidden beneath a huff. “You’re a sickness.”