Page 82 of Wicked Salvation
He’s one of the guests of honor.
He has tobehave.
That’s when the question floats through the speakers.
“Would anyone care to make a toast to the lovely couple?”
My hand rises.
Silas’ eyes are filled with dismay.
And mine? I imagine they’re brimming with amusement.
He must feel like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
“Ah yes, Lord Augustine-Beaumont,” the host says from the stage. “Please. Welcome!”
During the rapturous applause, right before I make my way to the stage, I look Silas dead in the face and say, soft enough for only he and I to hear. “I warned you. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.”
His face goes white.
I give him a dazzling smile.
The crowd parts for me, and after picking a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray, I walk toward the stage with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you’reabout to destroy your enemy’s life. Sadly, Eden will be collateral damage. But suffering is a part of human existence.
We all must endure it at some point.
I take the mic from the host, who falters and swallows hard. It’s warm in my palm, when I lift it to my mouth the silence tightens like a noose. Silas is rushing back to Eden’s side, but I don’t look at her.
Not yet.
“Good evening,” I say, letting my raspy voice stretch languidly through the ballroom, velvet-wrapped iron. “I hadn’t planned to speak tonight. But standing here…watching such a beautiful celebration of love, legacy and—” I pause, my lips curling, “ —resilience, I simply couldn’t resist.
There are a few polite laughs.
But they’re brittle, and brittle things break.
“For those unfamiliar with me, I am Lucian Augustine-Beaumont. I’m familiar with both the bride and the groom. We all attend Augustine Diocesan Academy together. I’ve been there to witness the way their love bloomed, and how it burns now, despite all odds.”
My gaze slides to Silas.
He stiffens.
A flicker of something passes over his face—shock, fear, rage. His grip tightens on Eden’s waist. She’s a vision of beauty, as always, but there’s no hiding the surprise on her face. Her hands are twitching, her fingers trembling.
And her eyes? Those wide, frighteningly beautiful brown eyes?
They finally see me.
“Silas Peregrine-Ashford IV,” I say smoothly, “was always a man of vision. And to see that vision culminate in such a…strategic—no, stunning—match is heartwarming. Truly.”
A few hesitant chuckles ripple through the guests.
I can practically hear Silas grinding his molars to dust.
“Of course,” I continue, letting my tone sharpen, “it takes a certain kind of brilliance to stage a wedding of this magnitude when your family fortune has long since evaporated. To convince the world you’re not hemorrhaging wealth, but basking in it. That,” I say, “is admirable theater.”
Now the laughter dies.
