Page 38 of Wicked Salvation
“It’s been more than a month. You’re still so emotional about it.”
Eden sighs deeply, her words coming out in ragged, harsh breaths. “She was my friend, Silas. We didn’t have to be intimate for me to care about her.” She looks out the window again. “If Cedric died, do you think you’d be over his death within a month?”
Hm.
Out of all my friends, Cedric is the most useful. We share the same room. We share the same philosophies—we come from the most aristocratic families. Yet, just like everyone else, he’s a means to an end.
“Yes,” I say. She gives me an incredulous look. “The only person I would grieve for that long would be you.”
Her eyes well up, but she blinks the tears back quickly.
Eden falls back into silence then. No follow up questions. The need for her approval snaking up my throat is new to me, and I suppress it as best as I can. I sink the gas pedal, the car speeds up. But my mind? It’s elsewhere.
If Eden died, I’d have to start from scratch.
There wouldn’t be enough time to find and marry someone else like her to save my family’s name. I’d also miss the feel of her slickness contracting around me, her pliant body and mind, and her gentle obedience.
It would take me more than a month to let go of that.
“I don’t think I’d ever be able to move on, if you died.”
The words hang like a death knell between us.
“If you died…” Her voice trails off. “I’m not sure what I would do. It would hurt.” She looks down at the ring on her finger. “We need each other.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Indeed we do,” I say, reaching over to hold her hand. She grips it tightly, her small hands soft like velvet in mine.
I’m tempted to say that when I first met her, I was only interested in her wealth. But that’s a secret I’ll take to the grave with me. The end always justifies the means—and it just so happens that I’ve fallen in love with the means.
The love story we tell our children will be one of fated love. Our daughters will believe that their Catholic god chose brought us together. But our sons? They’ll know the truth.
The Spirit ordained it.
We spend the rest of the drive in a comfortable silence.
The sun is dipping below the horizon when we pull into town. It’s small and deceptively quaint. It’s a Scottish town tucked between the rolling, mist-clad hills of the Highlands. To the untrained eye it looks like another postcard-perfect place.
Cobblestone streets wind lazily through the clusters of ivy-draped stone cottages, each with wrought-iron gates andgardens out front. There’s a high street lined with charming little shops: a bakery with fresh scones and a selection of jams, a tailor, a bookshop, and a restaurant that’s been there for generations.
The people are polite, of course, but there’s an undercurrent that you wouldn’t notice unless you’re privy to it. Old money is the lifeblood of this town. The people here—they live here because they want a private life, not because they have to.
The charming little clothing shops on the high street? Filled with obscure expensive brands. The bakery? Ran by a renowned French chef. The tailor? Imported from Italy. And of course, the restaurant has a Michelin-star.
I didn’t choose this place by accident.
Here, social currency is worth more than anything else—and fortunately, I still have plenty of it left. Next semester, Eden and I will return to this placemarried, a union that will make her the crown jewel of her family tree, and save my family from disgrace.
Plus this time, I’ll be able to pay for it all instead of relying on my name.
We pull up right in front of the restaurant in a designated parking spot.
“We’re here,” I announce, trying to keep my tone light. The maître d’ was more than happy to oblige my request to close the restaurant for our private dinner. Still, my heart thrums a bit more than usual.
I straighten my jacket, wiggling my toes in my custom Italian shoes as I round the car to open the door for Eden. She takes my hand and steps out—the scent of jasmine and vanilla surrounding me as it mixes with the fresh, crisp air.
She looks up at me.
