Page 99 of Wicked Salvation
“The same way you confronted him about every other fucked-up thing he’s done to you?”
Silence.
Her fists are balled by her sides.
“Lucian, the past forty-eight hours have ripped me open in places I didn’t know I was capable of bleeding from. The very fabric of my existence has been a lie.” Her eyes turn glassy. “The last thing I need right now is the rejection of the last friend I have.”
I don’t respond.
Only walk up the steps past her. “Come inside,” I mutter.
I hold the door open. She follows without a word.
The kettle whines softlyon the stove, slicing through the silence of the cabin like a whisper. Steam curls upward, toward the dim, yellow light. I pour the hot water over a tea bag, the gentle, floral fragrance of chamomile blossoming, soothing.
But something about it still feels insufficient.
I take the mug to her, sliding it across the worn wooden table.
Eden doesn’t reach for it, just curls her fingers tighter into the worn fabric of my sofa. She’s got her knees pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around her protectively like a shield. Like even though she just poured out her heart to me she still has reservations about trusting me.
Her fingers twitch nervously, and her eyes—now that I’m seeing them in the light, make my stomach drop. They are wide and hollow, her lashes wet and tangled, trails of wetness glittering in the light.
“The tea will help,” I offer.
It snaps her out of whatever trance she’s in.
The time that I spent making the tea for had my mind running wild—of all the destruction I caused on her behalf, of every night I spent lying awake wishing she was curled up beside me, warm and safe, of how I burned this entire place down just to get her to wake up and see what was in front of her all along.
Was I too harsh?
Was there a way to do it without turning her into this?
You didn’t turn her into this,the voice in my head reminds me.
As I settle across from her, guilt settles into my chest all the same. Eden takes the cup shaking hands, taking a deep sip despite how hot it is.
“I…” Her breath stutters, catching on the edge of her lips. When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse and ragged, every word raw and blistering, pouring forth blood from an open wound. “I was wrong about everything.”
She looks like she’s about to unloadeverythingin her soul.
I’m merely here to listen, to help, to mend whatever pieces I can.
“After the party…” Another breath. “I found out so many things.” Her voice falters, then steadies as she unravels the secrets, sharp and bitter like rusted blades. “My mother…”
Her breath trembles, fragile and hesitant, but she pushes forward, a quiet bravery beneath her heartbreak. Agnes Pembroke’s gift, a key to the truths concealed by Viscountess Evelyn’s ruthless hand. She found fragments of lives once lived in secret whispers.
Magnolia, the name rolling off her tongue. Her real mother, erased by scandal and betrayal, hidden by layers of cold, calculated lies. When she murmurs the words “illegitimate child,” her voice is not fragile; it is fierce, trembling with anger.
My revelation at their engagement party didn’t just fracture her relationship with Silas.
It destroyed her entire life.
And she’s struggling to pick up pieces.
A few more sips of tea and she comes completely undone, fracturing visibly, shoulders collapsing, body shaking with a grief too deep, too vast for words. She doubles over, fists pressed tightly against her trembling lips.
Every silent shudder wracks her entirely.
