Page 66 of Wicked Salvation
He’s silent.
“You’re the weakest link among us,” I say. “The one with his head always in the air. Your life has been planned for you, and in the places where it isn’t you have no concern about what might happen. That’s the beauty of being a Montague, I suppose. Your family’s reputation is propped up by its contribution to the arts.” My voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Did you call me to tell methat you don’t want more? That you don’t think this ritual will benefit you, as well?”
More silence.
“I know you’re in love with a commoner. I saw the portraits you drew of her in your sketchbook when we returned from summer break.” I hear him gasp. “Ask The Spirit to bring her into your life without losing everything.”
I end the call there.
He doesn’t call back—he knows better than that.
Because he knows how far I will go.
They all know how far I will go.
Obey or die.
XV
LUCIAN
Just as I planned, the school population is thinning. With each student who leaves, the faculty grows more tense. Augustine is one of my family’s many patronages. If there are no students left, the school will be shuttered and left for the next generation to rebuild if they so desire—just as they did more than a century ago.
Yet my actions aren’t entirely without repercussions.
I’m sitting by the table in my cottage, my laptop on the desk and my parents on the other side of the screen. They’re sitting on a loveseat in one of the drawing rooms—my mother’s favorite because of all the dark wood and blood red brocade on the walls. My father’s eyebrows are drawn together, my mother wringing her hands in her lap.
“Luce, what’s the meaning of all this?” my mother asks, her French accent peeking through when she calls me by my nickname. She isn’t the slightest bit upset, if anything she seems concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, Mum.” I take a sip.
My father clears his throat. “Don’t lie to your mother.” He puts a hand on my mother’s knee, looking over at her with an affectionate look on his face. “She’s worried about you.”
Even after nearly thirty years, Bram Augustine and Mireille Beaumont are still deeply in love. My father worships the ground Mum walks on, and she showers us all—even me, the rebellious one—with unconditional love.
They famously met at the races.
My father’s family had been visiting France and decided to attend the Beaumont Cup on their last day. Mum calls it love at first sight, while my father says he was already in love with her before they even met. Whatever the case, they got married.
The fact that they were both from aristocratic families came second to their love.
“I don’t know how to explain it in a way you will understand,” I quip.
My mother tilts her head, lustrous black hair falling over her shoulder with the movement, her red lips pressed together in curiosity. She wears a black dress embroidered with gold thread. My father wears a matching top. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled. Aside from that, they only wear their wedding bands.
They’ve never been a couple for showy displays of wealth—even though they could. Eden’s gaudy engagement ring flashes in my mind and I have to bite back a grimace. It doesn’t fit her style; but she’s willing to take it from thatmonsterif it means pleasing her family.
She thinks about everyone else but herself.
“Try us,” my mother coos. “You know you and I are very similar,mon doux Luce.”
Mum’s voice is my kryptonite.
Aside from the fact that my father raised us to treat her—and all women—with the utmost respect, Mum is easy to love. The pain in my chest from the whole situation is raw, but for the first time it feels like I’ve found some sort of salve.
“I love someone.”
My father grins. My mother’s confused expression turns into a smile.
