Page 8 of Wicked Salvation

I look at him in shock.

“What do you mean?”

He runs a hand along the stain on his shirt. “What’s got you so torn up, love?”

“What’s got me so torn up?” I clench my fists. “Vivienne’s dead, Silas!” I screech, louder than I intended, attracting the attention of the people around us.

His face drops and he pulls me into another hug, this one softer. “I didn’t know you were still so affected.” I hold on to his bicep.

I’m more than justaffected. My heart was buried with her. “They’ve given me another roommate like they’re trying to replace her. I hate it.”

“The world moves on, love,” he says. “It’s a terrible situation but we have to keep moving. It’s what she would have wanted.” I still feel angry, and his words—they only make it worse. “I have something to help take your mind off things.”

His face is blurry when I look up at him.

“Come with me,” he says. “But you have to agree to wear a blindfold.”

I look at him skeptically, but what do I have to lose at this point? Not much. If I die, I’ll be closer to Vivienne anyway. There’s no way God wouldn’t let her into heaven.

Death atones for all sins.

I let him blindfold me with his tie. Silas takes my hand—leading me. With one of my senses taken away, I can focus more on the softness of his hands, the sweetness of the air. I can also feel the tension in his fingers. There’s something a bit off with him.

But it could be all in my mind, because I’m tense too.

Lucian’s words have haunted me ever since Vivienne’s funeral. We both agreed that Vivienne’s death wasn’t actually suicide—a theory Silas won’t even entertain—but we disagreed on Silas, as usual. There’s a thorn in my chest. It’s pushed in a little deeper every time I think of Silas.

He tells me where to be careful as we talk, a protective hand around my shoulders at times. This is the man I’m going to marry. So why do I sometimes feel so terrible around him? I forgave him. The Lord forgave him. He’s met my family.

So why can’t things just go back to normal? Why does my heart rate pick up when he’s around? Why does every kiss feel like I should be expecting a sharp edge?

Even as he’s holding my hand, leading me toward whatever surprise he thinks will make meforgetmy grief, I’m expecting his grip to turn hostile, for a jolt of pain to snake up my arm. It doesn’t come, but it feels like it should.

When the path starts to slope, and Silas picks me up, I figure out where we’re heading.

“You’d be insane to be taking me back to that boathouse,” I say.

I’m not sure where the thought comes from, but it’s out of my mouth before I can think it through. Silas stills momentarily—and that’s when I’m sure fire will fall from the sky.

But it doesn’t.

“The boathouse burned down,” he says, flatly. “I don’t want to talk about anything that happened before I apologized to you. You agreed to start from scratch.”

He’s right.

I shouldn’t remind him of the past, because I shouldn’t be keeping track of it. When they asked the Lord how many times one should forgive, he didn’t agree to seven times. No, he saidseventy-seventimes. We’re not meant to keep score.

When we forgive, we’re supposed to forget.

I swallow thickly.

I hope the Lord will give me grace because I’m still working on forgetting. The scarred pentagram stares at me in the mirror after every shower. I still have bruises—from the sex, fromgetting tossed around in that classroom, from getting punched in the face.

Stop thinking about it.

When Silas finally removes my blindfold, I’m met with a scene that looks straight out of a story book—the kind of scene I dreamed about as a child.

“Silas, I…”