Page 31 of Wicked Salvation

Dread buildsin my stomach with each step I take.

My next class is English Literature—the class that brought Lucian and I together. I’m not sure what to say when I see him, or if he’ll want to talk to me. Nothing that comes to my mind makes sense, especially now that Silas and I are back on good terms.

That night with him was a mistake.

He said it himself—he doesn’t fool around with people in relationships. If he regrets it, then so do I. Straightening my spine, I step into the classroom, prepared to ignore him, prepared to act like his tongue didn’t take me to the moon and back, like every other one of my thoughts aren’t about him.

The room hums with chatter and the shuffling of books. I slide into my usual seat. Lucian’s is empty—but he usually shows up a minute or two before class. But when Sister Hamilton appears with her books and chalk, I realize that he’s not going to show.

I’m cold, even though the classroom is warm.

I try not to look at the door.

I try not to wonder.

Sister Hamilton begins discussing the next text we’ll be dissecting.

Wuthering Heights, of all things.

Of course we’ll be reading about the most dysfunctional lovers in all of history. If I didn’t know better I’d think the Lord was making a mockery out of me. I thumb the golden cross around my neck: it still feels a little weird, but I’ve been so out of sorts lately.

Everything feels weird.

My pen taps rhythmically against my notebook as Sister Hamilton speaks. I’m trying to clear my mind, trying to focus, trying to immerse myself in the book?—

Crash!

Glass explodes from one of the tall, arched windows, scattering across the floor in a rain of colored glass and murky sunlight. The students skitter, some screaming. Some immediately start whispering about bombs. I don’t move, even though a shard of glass scraped my cheek, and I look up to see that Sister Hamilton hasn’t either.

I’m oddly calm.

That’s when I turn to the shattered window.

It’s the one in my row, the one right beside where Lucian would have sat.

Yet,he’s standing outside the shattered window, a baseball bat in hand.

I blink rapidly, wiping the blood from my cheek. What is he doing? He looks completely different from the last time I saw him. Yes, he’s still dressed in all-black, yes his long hair is still shaggy—but his face?

I don’t recognize him.

Sunken eyes, pale skin.

A joint hanging from his lips.

He smokes to calm his anxiety, so that means…

“Lord Augustine-Beaumont!” Sister Hamilton exclaims, moving to the shattered window. “What is the meaning of this? You could have seriously hurt someone!”

Lucian looks terrifyingly composed, while my heart pounds like a wardrum. He lifts his gaze to me, and then he—smiles.

It’s not cruel.

It’s not gentle.

But, it’s deliberate and sends a shiver down my spine.

“I didn’t hurt anyone…seriously,” he replies to her, but his gaze is locked on me.