Page 74 of Wicked Salvation
No mention of how it got there.
No questions.
Just cover it.
Hide it beneath concealer and pressed powder.
As I follow her to the room, the lights seem too bright, too golden. My heart beats against my ribs like it’s searching for a door. I wish I could melt away into the floorboards, hidden for an eternity. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to let her know that I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this—that no God would want this life for me.
I want to shatter the illusion for good.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I let them paint me.
I let them lace me up.
I let them conceal and powder the bruise until it disappears beneath Dior and diamonds.
Throughout it all, my mother hums as if this is the happiest day of her life.
It probably is.
And that’s the scariest part of it all.
They saya bride glows in the weeks leading up to her wedding.
At first glance it might be true of me. On the inside, though? I’m the afterimage of something already extinguished, barely a smoldering ember—let alone a glowing flame.
I stand at the top of the steps.
My gloved hands are clasped around my clutch so tightly the diamond on my finger bites into my skin. The ring is obscene in its brilliance. Back at school, it seemed more normal. But here, as I’m about to attend my engagement party, it almost looks gaudy.
Actually, it would be if it was on the finger of anyonebutsomeone of my station. My mother says it catches the light like a halo. To me, all I see when I look at it is Silas’ face—wearing a pair of horns.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by the sound of the huge gates of the estate screeching open. A blacked out Bentley Bentayga pulls up the gravel drive. I know who it is, but my breath still catches when Silas steps out.
He’s tailored and polished like a bespoke illusion. His dark hair is perfectly slicked back and styled, his svelte body in an immaculately tailored suit, crisp white shirt, golden cufflinks, Italian leather shoes. He moves up the steps toward me like he owns the air, like even the wind bends to him.
When his crystal eyes land on me, he gives me a smile—pristine and practiced. That’s the very smile that fooled me when I first met him. If you take Silas at face value, he’s the perfect Christian man.
Never take anyone at face value.
I’ve learned that now.
How many bruises did it take?My own thoughts mock me.
“My love,” he says as he takes the steps two at a time. “You look like a vision of heaven.” He gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek, his cologne lingering like smoke—oud, leather and cold ambition.
Silas strokes my cheek lovingly.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He offers me the crook of his arm and we take the steps slowly. He fans away the driver and opens the door for me himself. Like the perfect gentleman. Like the perfect fiancé. Like the man that everyone thinks I’m lucky to have.
I slide into the seat.
