Page 78 of Wicked Salvation
But it’s real.
“Well. For what it’s worth,” she says, stepping back, “you’re doing amazing. The ring’s a bit much, but it suits you.”
I huff a laugh. “Tell that to my mother.”
“I’ve never had one,” she says with the kind of wistfulness that makes me wonder what she’s been through. “But from all the books I’ve read, I suppose they love the performance almost more than the marriage.”
We share a smile and some silence.
And then softly, she says, “I know what it’s like to love a complicated man. Alexander was quite…unique when we first met.” She looks down at her own ring. “But as our love grew, so did he. Now, I can’t imagine my life without him.”
Did he ever hurt you?The question is on the tip of my tongue.
She starts talking again before I can ask her.
“Just—be careful.”
I blink. “Silas?”
“His father does business with Alexander.” Her expression doesn’t shift, but the air does. “And from what I’ve seen, the Peregrine-Ashford men like to wrap their cunning words in lofty promises. Their devotion is all consuming—but it’s still a noose.”
I want to ask what she means. How she knows. Whatbusinesshis father does with the leader of a crime syndicate. But the door opens, and the moment vanishes like mist.
Another woman enters, chattering into her phone, and Alizé gives me one last smile before slipping out the door gracefully. I stare at the mirror for a long time after she’s gone—long enough that reality starts to blur and I can’t even hear the incessant conversation of the woman who entered.
I don’t feel as alone anymore.
But I also feel watched.
Not in the ballroom.
In my soul.
When I make it back to Silas’ side, I’m outside of myself.
I’m floating above it all watching myself dance and talk and laugh. I’m wrapped in lace and satin, wearing a face I no longerrecognize. Alizé’s words play over and over again in my head as I mix and mingle.
Dinner is servedin a gilded hall with too many forks and not enough air. I sit between Silas and the Count of Wessex’s daughter—Jasmine. She and I are the same age, but we’re vastly different. She’s telling me about the dress she wore to the Vienna Opera Ball.
My mother attended.
But before my engagement she wouldn’t be caught dead with me at a high society social engagement. I was acceptable for church, for volunteering, for trips to High Street when her friends were away, but never for events where the crème de la crème would be.
I try to listen to Jasmine, I really do.
But the walls feel too close even though there are hundreds of people in the room. Everything feels too bright, too sharp. My head is beginning to ache—it could be from all the alcohol. I suppose it’s never good to drink on an empty stomach.
Yet there’s a moment when something shifts.
The air turns electric and cold, like something ancient has just entered the room. I glance up from my plate of veal, trying to be subtle.
That’s when I see him.
Lucian.
He’s standing by one of the exits, half-shadowed beneath an arch of wisteria and golden candlelight. Dressed in black, like always. He’s tailored to sin. Cufflinks gleaming even from thisdistance. His black shirt is crisp, his collar slightly undone—enough to see the shadowy tattoos on his neck.
He looks like everything I should hate.
