Page 2 of Wicked Believer
I roll my eyes at that one. Lucifer and I aren’t actually married, and though I’m still wearing his ring on my finger, our initial engagementwas fake. The media’s not exactly aware of that little detail. Not to mention, Satan is technically Lucifer’s brother, Wrath. People often get that wrong. To the Righteous, the Originals are all the same. Seven devils cut from the same cloth.
But my personal favorite is a sign that simply readsYou’re going to Hell.
I scoff.
Like I’m not already its willing queen.
I shake my head, turning back toward the funeral. It’s only fair, I suppose. My father, their precious martyr, wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for me ...
My attention slides back toward Lucifer. We haven’t spoken about it directly, but he doesn’t need to say it out loud for me to know. He doesn’t regret a thing.
Killing my father. Lying. Manipulating me.
The last one, most especially.
I keep silent, tamping down the resentment that stirs in me despite my desire.
My father’s place in Hell will be particularly punishing.
Though I can’t help but wonder if Lucifer killed him for me or his own twisted ends ...
I glance down at the lectern. A prepared speech is there, something Imani or someone in Lucifer’s PR team wrote for me. In the mix of the media chaos over the last few weeks, I didn’t even think to prepare my own father’s eulogy, and honestly, I’m not certain I would have if I’d been given the chance.
My gaze finds Lucifer’s again, this time staying there.
Like there’s no one there except for him and me.
His intensity sears through me, his expression downright devilish. With dark hair and even darker eyes that I swear sometimes hold a hint of hellfire when he looks at me, he’s painfully beautiful. So beautiful that it makes my chest ache.
His is the face of God’s once-most-cherished angel.
A stark contrast to the villain I know he can be.
“My father used to beat me,” I say into the sudden quiet, surprising myself as the unscripted words drop from my lips. Several cameras flash distantly.
I ignore them, focused on my memories. Lucifer knows this, but it’s the first time I’ve admitted it publicly, and though it was supposed to be just me, his siblings, and the pallbearers present, this will no doubt be plastered across every newspaper stand and media outlet around the world come morning. “And his followers, his congregants, turned a blind eye.”
The words come out barely above a whisper, but I’m certain everyone hears me.
I look toward the nearby crowd, their silence as cold as the frozen ground beneath our feet. “He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t even try to be.” I stare down at my hands then, unable to stop the tears that gather, though I’m not sure whether they’re meant for my father or for me. “And I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
“Murderess! Jezebel!”
I suck in a harsh breath, gripping the lectern as someone from the crowd interrupts me before they’re quickly silenced and hauled away by the attending police.
Lucifer and I don’t go anywhere without a police escort these days. Not after the anthrax that was delivered to his penthouse—meant for me and sent by someone who didn’t know I’m immortal. I’m guessing they know now.
Privacy is a distant dream.
“But I wish ... I wish I could be ...” I mutter, struggling to collect my thoughts. “Sorry, that is.” I blink, surprised when a tear falls onto my hand where I clutch the lectern, the first and only I’ve shed for him, but I refuse to look up from where I speak into the microphone. “I wish he could have been the father I needed him to be. Wish he could have been so many things ...” I glance toward Lucifer again, and I don’tneed to see how his throat writhes as he swallows to understand he feels my words keenly.
They’re as much for him as they are for me.
I suck in another ragged breath, knowing this next part is likely to start a riot among the already-violent crowd, the people who are so eager to have a piece of Lucifer, of me. To tear me limb from limb for what they think I represent. But I don’t say it for them.
I say it for me.
And for Him.
