Page 48 of Wicked Salvation

I don’t know if I can handle an eternity of this.

But I don’t have a choice—the only friend I had left hates me because I was dishonest with him. I feel pathetic to even think I need saving. I should be able to save myself.

Felling the monolith that is Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV?

It’s not a one-woman job.

“Now that all of that is out of the way,” he says, cutting through my thoughts. “Clean yourself up.” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the dress pooled at my ankles and my face. “We’ll finish dinner, then head to our hotel and you can unwrap the gift I got you.”

He smiles—it’s a genuine one, I can tell.

There’s not even a bit of remorse in his eyes, even though he just…

I can’t even bring myself to think the word. Because if I think that, then I’m going to spiral, and if I spiral, he’s just going to get angrier.

Silas disappears, leaving me alone.

I manage to zip up my dress alone, then splash water on my face, taking a paper towel to clean my eyes. I fix my hair as best I can, trying to use it to hide all the bruises on my face.

My eyes start to water. Next thing I know, I’m retching up everything I ate. I fall to my knees first, then I’m sitting on the floor of the bathroom. There are tiny droplets of blood on the porcelain floor—I don’t need to even guess who it belongs to.

This is the life my mother thinks I should have.

The life that so many women would kill for, and I don’t want it.

I fiddle with the ring on my finger; £350,000 just sitting there, a symbol of Silas’ love.

I don’t think I want his love.

But the only way out of this is through it.

XI

LUCIAN

The dead don’t mind the cold.

That’s what I tell myself as I sink into the grass, a bouquet of dark red dahlias cradled loosely in one of my hands. A thick fog rolls over the graveyard, the last strains of daylight trying to peek through the clouds.

My slacks are damp from walking through the thick grass to get here, the wet earth still clinging to the fabric like greedy fingers. But I don’t move, don’t even brush it off.

Let it stain.

Let it mark me.

It’s proof that I was here. As if Vivienne’s sham of a funeral wasn’t already an insult to her, her family and everything she believed—these animals had the audacity to still maintain the rules that the graveyard is off-limits.

Last I heard from her, Marita couldn’t take the grief.

She’s off on leave of absence—likely in some intensive rehab program, as the last time I saw her she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. That’s the toll that losing the person you love takes on you. First it’s sadness, then it’s rage, then you’re left floating, purposeless.

Don’t I know it.

With Marita gone, Vivienne must be lonely.

Her gravestone looms over me, a simple slab of white stone with her name engraved on it. I run my fingers along the letters.

Vivienne Seraphina Carlisle.