Page 92 of Wicked Salvation

She’s a talker.

I’m a listener.

“You love her.”

Her pronouncement slices through the air. I’m afraid it might cut my throat and the truth comes spilling from me like fresh blood. I don’t answer.

Tyne grabs my chin, forcing me to face her. “You’re in love with Eden Lockhart.”

I meet her gaze.

“Yes.”

It feels like bleeding.

Tyne whistles low. “I made you guys partners in literature class because she had a near perfect score in her O levels, so I thought she’d help you since you were taking the class in your final year.” She chuckles softly. “But love? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I.”

More silence.

“I’ve heard bits and pieces of the story,” she comments. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

“Can I at least get my joint back?”

“After you’ve told me the story.”

She gives me a devilish grin, a rare flash of the mischievous little kids we used to be. In addition to being talkative, Tyne was a troublemaker. I was her scapegoat, because they would have punished her—but nobody dared lay a finger on me.

With a huff, I tell her the story of Eden’s betrayal.

I detail how we got close, how I noticed the bruise on her face. I tell Tyne about the times we spent together talking about Literature but reallynot. I recount the night she called me and Irushed to her rescue. The threats and fights that ensued between Silas and I. Then I tell her how we almost had sex after she showed up on my doorstep racked with grief—and what I now know is guilt. I wrap up the story with how embarrassed I felt when I confronted Silas about her to find that they were already engaged.

For what it’s worth, she takes it all with a straight face. True to her word, she hands me back the joint. I take a long, shaky breath. Recounting the story stirred up emotions that I’d forced myself not to feel.

Now, I don’t know what to do with them.

She puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Lucian.” That lands heavier that it should. My eyes burn, but I tell myself it’s from the cold, dry air. “When we were kids, I remember thinking that you’d never fall in love. That you’d end up married to some posh brittle girl and keep your heart locked away in a box somewhere.”

A dry laugh. “Maybe that is what happened.”

She raps my knuckles like a true teacher. “Eden’s not brittle.”

No, she’s not.

She’s fire dressed in tulle. She’s sorrow carved into grace. She has a soul like mine—broken but not defeated, lost and roaming. I figured we’d find our home in each other. We’re so alike but so different, in the best ways.

Eden is the only thing that ever made me want to be good.

“You think she regrets it?” I say after a long pause.

My voice is a whisper so thin I’m not even sure she hears it before it gets carried away by the wind.

“Do you?”

I blink at her. “What?”