Page 42 of Wicked Salvation
I suppose all women are like that.
Fortunately, she has me to guide her—and for that, she should be grateful.
X
EDEN
I’m shaking by the time Frances brings us the starter.
It’s hand-chopped venison tartare with pickled juniper berries and quail egg yolk.
The meal looks absolutely delicious. But when I slice a piece and put it in my mouth, it’s tasteless. Not the chef’s fault, of course, nor Frances’; everything is perfect.
No, my hands are shaking because I finally told Silas no.
I stood my ground against him.
The fact that it was about our wedding? Irrelevant.
Dread still coils in my stomach at the thought of marrying to him, even after I’ve pushed aside all the doubts swirling in my mind. Even still, I won’t let my mother plan my wedding. I don’t want to spend weeks in some snow-blanketed villa while Viscountess Evelyn Lockhart decides the kind of flowers I’ll carry, the food that will be served, the decorations, what my wedding cake will look like.
I need to be there.
Taking another bite of my meal, my eyes land on the huge diamond ring on my finger. It’s the first time,ever, in our relationship that I didn’t just nod along. I stood my ground. I advocated for myself—I didn’t allow him to push me around.
Lucian would be proud of me.
The thought overwhelms me before I can push it away, so I have a sip of wine to calm my nerves. While I eat, the shaking in my hands gets worse. The high of standing up to Silas is wearing off, leaving me with something I didn’t think I’d feel so soon.
Fear.
We finish the second course in silence.
Frances takes our plates, refills our wine glasses. Silas is still quiet.
When she returns with the soup course—a wild mushroom broth that she pours tableside over roasted chestnuts and a thyme-infused cream—it’s been more than fifteen minutes without a word from him.
I glance at him sitting across from me.
The flickering candlelight makes him look like a beautiful statue. Perfectly tousled dark hair, a two piece suit that fits him like a second skin and a jawline as sharp as glass. He takes a taste of the soup with slow, deliberate precision, each motion controlled and elegant.
He’s staring into the bowl of soup like it contains some untold secrets.
“Silas?”
He looks up—calm on the outside, fire melting his blue eyes.
My throat goes dry. He’s upset.
But he promised not to hurt me again.
“Yes, love?”
Dread curls in my stomach.
We’re allowed to disagree. Calm down, Eden.
“I just…” I punctuate my sentence with a spoonful of soup. It tastessogood, but I can barely focus on it. The storm in my head is sapping all my energy. “I want to say thank you for listening to me.”
