Page 40 of Wicked Salvation

When Frances returns, she bears a bottle of aged wine that will pair well with dinner. After aerating the wine and pouring us both a glass, she disappears—leaving us alone until theamuse-boucheis ready.

Eden looks around, taking a sip of her wine.

Again, we end up in silence. It’s driving me up a wall.

If I ask her, she’ll say it’s grief—it is beyond annoying. Even from the grave, Vivienne is finding a way to insert herself into our relationship. The fucking irony of it all.

I sip my wine as well.

That’s when I remember.

“I want you to spend the winter break with me. St. Moritz, probably?”

She swallows thickly. “I’m not sure. I have a wedding to plan and?—”

“It wasn’t a question, love,” I interrupt her.

Eden blinks. “We decided on a winter wedding.”

“Your mother decided on a winter wedding.”

“You don’t want a winter wedding?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So why are you forcing me to go to St. Moritz with you when youknowI have to plan our wedding?” She sets her glass down so forcefully the table shakes. “Our wedding date was plannedbeforeyou even proposed to me. We’re in November. The wedding is happening on December 31st. I don’t have any time to go skiing.”

Eden’s tone rubs me the wrong way. First, she declined a direct order. Shedoesn’tdecline my orders. Second, she’s overthinking the entire thing. Third—and most importantly—she’s disobeying me.

“Your mother is planning most of the wedding,” I say firmly. “You’re coming to St. Moritz. It’s non-negotiable.”

Eden’s eyebrows lower. “You don’t think I deserve to plan my own wedding? You’d rather I leave it to my mother? One of the most important days in my life and you expect me to abandon it and?—”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m expecting you to do.”

Tense silence.

And that’s when Frances appears with the amuse-bouche.

Smoked eel on oatcake, topped with foraged sea herbs and a whisper of horseradish cream. It’s served with a dram of peaty local whisky to cleanse our palates from the wine.

As soon as Frances leaves, Eden is visibly upset.

“You’re getting married to please your parents,” I say. “Why does the wedding matter so much to you?”

Her jaw drops. “So because of that I should be denied the chance to plan my own wedding? Theonlywedding I might have in my entire life? I’m not going with you to St. Moritz, Silas. I have to stay in London to make arrangements,” she huffs. “Invitations go outtomorrow, our engagement party is in two weeks, you have no idea all the work that goes into this.”

I grab her wrist from across the table, jerking her toward me. I tighten my grip on her hand, panic flashes in her eyes and it stokes the flames kindling within me.

“Have you forgotten, love?” My voice is deceptively calm. I’m seconds away from blowing. “I neveraskyou. Itellyou.”

She looks down at her wrist.

I know it hurts her—but this is a lesson.

“What will we be doing in St. Moritz?” Her voice is a whisper.

A smile twists my lips. “Enjoying my family’s chalet, the private ski slopes, dinner and drinks in the evening—and you in my bed every night.”