Righteous Damnation (Righteous and Wicked #1)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

EDEN

The knock at my door is soft, almost hesitant.

I’m cocooned in my thick, fluffy sheets thumbing through a romance novel. I’m almost at the end, and I can’t turn the pages fast enough. Third act break ups absolutely suck, but I can’t get enough of them.

I hear the knock again, this time louder. A knock that soft could only come from tiny hands. One of my brothers, more than likely.

With a sigh, I leave my book and cross the expanse of my room to open the door.

“What do you want?” I lean against the door frame, my arms crossed as I stare down at them. William and Andrew look up at me, huge grins on their faces.

My twin brothers are seven years younger than me. At eleven years old, they still have to crane their heads to meet my line of sight—and I’ll cherish that for as long as I can.

In a summer or two they’ll be towering over me.

“You’re interrupting me,” I hiss. “You’d better have a good reason. ”

William rolls his eyes. “Interrupting what? Those stupid books you read?”

I frown.

“You little twat,” I whisper, just as one of the housekeepers shuffles past us. “Don’t knock on my door if you don’t have anything to say.” I start closing the door when Andrew’s little hand blocks it.

“We do have something to say, though.” Andrew’s wearing a smug look.

Between the two of them, he’s the smarter one. He’s the brains. William is just…William. There’s no other way to describe him. William’s the kind of kid you have to meet to understand just how ridiculous he is.

As far as looks go, they’re identical. Rosy cheeks, our mother’s blue eyes and a mess of brown curly hair like our father. One of the many reasons they prefer them, I think. The twins are the perfect mix of them both.

They’ve just started branching out from wearing matching clothes. Andrew likes to dress like a little business man, while William’s outfits always look like he just fell out of an action movie. Right now I think he’s trying to channel…Doctor Strange?

I love my brothers, I really do. But the older they get, the more the rift between us grows. A firstborn daughter has no use for a viscount. But twin sons?

“Spit it out,” I say to Andrew.

The two laugh. “Father wants to see you in his study.”

“What did you do, Eden?” William’s grin turns wolfish, his voice mocking. “Did they catch you sneaking out?”

“I never sneak out.”

A bubble of anxiety rises in my throat. It’s never good when we’re called to our father’s study. It’s the only part of the estate we’re banned from when he’s not around. It’s also where we’ve faced all our punishments.

Well, where I have. William and Andrew just know that I always leave with a tear-streaked face, often retreating to the solace of my room to recover.

I look down at my clothes. It’s almost time for afternoon tea and I’m still dressed in my silk pajamas. It’s the beginning of summer break , I reassure myself. I’m allowed to dress like this . For a split second I consider changing.

I thumb the golden cross hanging around my neck and say a quick, silent prayer.

“Hurry up,” William teases. “You’re going to make him more angry if you’re late!”

Then they run away from my door, their laughter echoing in the cavernous hallway. Clenching my fists, I slip my feet into my house slippers while I rack my brain about why my father would want to see me now.

I’ve been out of school for less than a week. Graduated top of my class. Got straight A’s on my GSCEs. Since then, I’ve been holed up in my room, escaping into worlds where life is perfect. I’ve been taking all my meals here, wishing myself into a novel where my Prince Charming rescues me from this suffocating life.

I am present when it matters most to my parents—we’re the perfect picture of unity at church every time we attend. I help the youth pastor teach the younger kids, volunteer at the soup kitchen, and this summer I plan to join the two week mission to help repair a church for the parishioners in Ireland.

As far as how our life looks , it’s perfect. I can’t think of a reason why my father would be upset. I wrap myself in a robe just in case I look too sloppy in my pajamas, and sleek my coily hair back with a bandeau.

The walk to my father’s office has my stomach in knots. I try to remind myself of all the good things I’ve done. But all I can hear in my head is my mother’s voice telling me I’m insufficient. What have I failed at this time?

By the time I make it to the other wing of the house, I’m nearly catatonic. My hand hovers on the golden knob for longer than I’d like. I knock more confidently than I feel.

“Come in,” my father’s gruff voice sends a menacing chill down my spine.

I blink back tears, already playing out a scenario in my mind where he punishes me for something I didn’t even notice. That’s always the problem. I don’t notice the things they want me to notice.

I’m in my head so much that sometimes I miss important things—like the tone of my mother’s voice when she asks me to do something, or the face that I make when my father’s having a serious conversation with me. I zone out too much.

With a deep breath, I push the door open.

My father’s study brings with it a heavy air; the room carries the weight of centuries. That’s how long it’s been in our family. This estate has been passed down from each viscount to his firstborn son. One day it will be William’s.

Everything inside this room has some kind of importance to our family’s history. The rich mahogany panels lining the walls, the scent of leather and tobacco, the priceless paintings hanging on the walls.

It’s not just a room. It’s an extension of the expectations that come with being the daughter of Viscount William Lockhart—composed, suffocatingly perfect.

The desk in the center of the room commands attention. It’s enormous, practically a monument, intricately carved from mahogany so polished that the light from the ancient chandelier hanging above gleams off its surface.

Bookshelves line the walls, stretching all the way up to the coffered ceiling. There are rows of leather-bound volumes sitting on each shelf, stretching all the way to the ceiling. Between the books, my father displays treasures from his travels: a priceless jade figurine, a brass telescope, and a pair of dueling pistols mounted on velvet.

Above the shelves, the heads of animals he’s hunted—a few stags, a wolf, even a lion—watch me with glassy eyes. I’ve always been unnerved by them, but today they’re especially haunting. An image of my own head mounted that way flashes in my mind.

My father is sitting in the huge brown leather chair behind the desk, a wisp of smoke rising in the air from his pipe. He smokes tobacco all the time, so I’m not surprised. But my mother is sitting in one of the leather chairs in his study.

That’s strange.

Behind them both, the tall arched windows let in a stream of light, mostly smothered by the heavy velvet curtains, but enough to pick up the blond streaks in my mother’s light brown hair, the gleam of her golden brown skin, the light blush on her cheeks, the mauve lipstick that adorns her frown.

My father’s dark eyes appraise me. Despite how stern he is, I’ve always felt closer to him than my mother. Maybe because he doesn’t talk much. Even when he metes out punishment, it makes some sense. He’s an iron fist in a velvet glove.

But my mother being here throws me off.

Suddenly, I feel small. It’s like the room itself is judging me .

My fingers itch to fidget with the cross around my neck, but I force them still.

“Lovely of you to finally grace us with your presence, Eden,” My mother’s voice cuts me like a shard of glass. It always does, but I never get used to the pain. “We were wondering if we needed to have one of the housekeepers fetch you.”

I force my spine ramrod straight.

“William and Andrew were?—”

My mother cuts me off with a snap of her fingers. “It’s just like you to always blame your brothers.” She huffs and gives my father a pointed look. “I told you this was the right decision.”

My father shrugs. That’s usually how he is around my mother. She does most of the talking, most of the planning. And if my soul could talk, most of the wounding.

Viscountess Evelyn Lockhart takes her job as matriarch of the family very seriously—and apparently that involves preserving the thoughts, feelings and egos of the male heirs within our family. I’m a disposable daughter, and she never misses an opportunity to remind me of it.

“Have a seat, Eden,” my father points to the empty chair beside my mother.

I walk towards it tentatively, my legs wobble like jelly. My mom’s frown grows disdainful. “Don’t drag your feet, child.”

“Yes, mother.”

The aged leather creaks with my weight.

“You’re crooked,” my mother says. She raps my knuckles. “Sit up straight.”

I adjust my posture, keeping my hands on my lap, my feet crossed at the ankles. I keep my eyes forward, staring at my father—my mother’s eyes burn into the side of my face. She’s appraising my outfit, and obviously I’ve been found lacking.

“We’ve called you here to discuss your future,” my mother begins, and I turn to look at her. In the corner of my eye, I notice my father preoccupied with a painting on the wall—one that he’s probably seen a thousand times. “Your father and I are concerned with the trajectory of your life.”

I’m confused. What have I done wrong?

“I don’t understand.”

My mother huffs under her breath. “When do you ever?” she mocks, but waves a hand, annoyed. “As I said, your father and I are concerned about where your life is going. Your current trajectory is pitiful at best.”

I’m getting warm.

“I graduated at the top of my class.” From Spearcrest, one of the most competitive private schools in the world, no less. “I got straight As on my GSCEs.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “William?”

She shakes my father from some sort of stupor. He takes a huge puff from his pipe, closing his eyes as he does so. There’s something in his expression that I can’t read.

“What your mother is trying to say,” he looks at her, and she gives him a look sharp enough to slice through the tension in the air. “You’re an intelligent girl, which is why we want the best for you. We’ve been considering your options for sixth form.”

My mother’s glare grows icy. I know that look all too well. He didn’t say what she wanted him to say. If my father is an iron fist in a velvet glove, she’s a well-sharpened knife, gleaming dangerously.

“I figured I’d continue sixth form at?—”

“Please, Eden. Stop talking.” My mother adjusts herself in the seat, straightening the hem of her already perfect chiffon skirt. “There are many things your father and I want you to learn that cannot be taught at any school here in London.”

I’m puzzled. I’ve done nothing but excel at everything they’ve ever asked of me . But somehow, I always fall short. I bite my tongue, holding in my questions, my anger too.

There’s a phantom of a smile on her lips. “You pride yourself on your intelligence, but that hardly matters here.” She gestures to the air. “Your place in society depends on much more than burying your nose in books.”

My tongue hurts.

“You’re eighteen. By now, most girls your age have already been presented to fine society, they have suitors. Your friends attended the debutante ball just last month. And you?” She scoffs. “You’re here, dressed in your pajamas, eyes still bleary from sleep.”

I’m screaming on the inside, because I wanted to attend that ball, but my mother shut down the idea. She cast my invitation in the fireplace when the majordomo handed it to her, while I watched with a sinking heart. And my heart sank again when Eleanor told me how wonderful it had been—the extravagant dresses, the music, the food, the chance at finding love.

It sounded magical. She was the one who denied me that experience. Fire starts rippling through my veins. But I hold my tongue, sinking my teeth so deep the pain starts to overshadow the storm brewing in my mind.

“We’ve made a decision.” My father isn’t meeting my gaze as my mother speaks. “Your best chance of finding a suitor in your condition is at Augustine Diocesan Academy.”

My eyes widen and my mouth tastes of copper .

“And to ensure you understand what is at stake, we have made another decision.”

My father is looking at everything in the room except me. I mindlessly stroke the golden cross hanging around my neck for comfort. I’m praying, I’m hoping, I’m wishing that this is all just a horrible dream.

“It’s time you learned independence. You’ll have four semesters at Augustine—two for lower sixth form, and two for upper sixth form.” She counts out the numbers on her lithe, manicured fingers as she speaks. “We will be cutting you off financially if you don’t have a betrothal from someone who befits the station of our family by then.”

I can’t hold it anymore, there’s blood trickling down my throat. The words spring from me before I have time to stop them.

“You can’t do this to me!” My voice shocks me. It’s warped and gravelly. “You’re the one who didn’t want me to go to the ball, and now you’re punishing me?—”

I hear the slap before I feel it. My mother has crossed the space between us, leaving a searing handprint on my cheek. The world spins briefly. She’s got her hands on either side of the chair I’m sitting on, our faces inches apart.

My mother rarely gets this close to me. But whenever she does, I can see why she’d hate me—her striking blue eyes, her poreless skin as beautiful as the fire-gold glow of dawn, her thick strawberry blonde curls that smells like a fresh field of flowers, the long eyelashes—I have none of her beauty.

“Don’t you dare disrespect me, child.” She’s seething. The words slip out through clenched teeth. “This is the kind of disgusting attitude that will get you nowhere. You need to be bent into submission, and I don’t have the patience to deal with you anymore. ”

I nod, not trusting my words anymore.

“If you don’t do as we say, we’ll send you away. You won’t get access to your trust. You’ll never see me, your father or your brothers again. You’ll just disappear.”

My breath hitches in my throat. They’ve sent me away twice before, once when my mental health got so bad that I was ruining the family’s reputation. Another when I had committed a grievous sin. Those were the loneliest times of my life. I had no visitors, and didn’t even have access to books.

“I can’t endure that for the rest of my life.” My voice is barely a whisper.

My mother gives me a pearly smile that is filled with everything but warmth.

“Exactly. So you’ll do as we say. Genesis 2:24.”

My eyes are wet, but I blurt out the words anyway. “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh.”

She chuckles humorlessly. “It’s what the Lord wants. I met your father at Augustine. I’m sure you’ll catch the eye of someone there, despite your dreariness. You’re the daughter of a viscount. That will be enough.”

I’ve heard the story a million times. He was smitten with her beauty. She was smitten by his wit and intelligence. The fact that he was a viscount came second to their love. Hard to believe, when she’s given me stipulations about the kind of person I can marry.

In one last cry for help, I turn to my father. “Father, please…”

He takes a deep puff from his pipe.

“It’s out of my hands, Eden.” His eyes look sad and glassy. “The decision has already been made.” And yet, I know this wasn’t his idea.

The world starts to tilt. I’m not even sure what I’m feeling. Shock? Betrayal? All I know is that my fingers and toes are numb, my heart is pounding in my ears and I need to get out of here now , or I’m going to start crying uncontrollably.

But I have one more thing to get off my chest.

“It’s because I’m a girl,” I mutter. “You wouldn’t do this to William or Andrew.”

My mother sneers, but doesn’t respond. I take it as silent acknowledgement.

“Go to your room,” she snaps. “Now.”

I’m on my feet and out of the study in record time. It’s when I’m shoving the door to my room closed that I realize I ran all the way here. My breath comes in shallow gasps. I take a few steps back from the door then I fall to the carpeted floor like I’ve been hit.

The walls are closing in on me. My heartbeat is all over, beating furiously, angrily. It’s too much. Everything is too much. They don’t care about me.

They never did .

The thought spirals through my mind until it’s shouting at me. My chest aches, my throat closing around the words I’ll never be able to express because they are wound too tightly in my chest.

Pressing my hand to my temples, I try to silence the thoughts. But that doesn’t work—it never does. Why would they do this to me? After everything I’ve done to please them, to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect worshipper—why would they just throw me away?

Why me, Lord?

My vision blurs with tears. I shake my head violently. No, no crying. Crying is weak. Crying won’t fix this. My breath scrapes my throat raw. I run my thumb over the golden cross around my neck. But even as I cry out to God, the comfort feels hollow. If this is His will, I have to accept it. But it feels like I won’t be able to survive it.

“They hate me,” my voice cracks. “They hate me like everyone else.”

I stand, dizzily making my way to my nightstand. With shaking hands, I open the drawer. It’s a mess—just like my mind right now. Old receipts, unfilled prescriptions, tangled jewelry, crumpled bookmarks. But a pill bottle sits amidst the clutter. I grab it, twisting the cap off with clumsy fingers.

A few pills spill onto the floor but I don’t care about them. My vision swims, my fingers don’t have any grip but I manage to get a few pills in my mouth and swallow them dry. My psychiatrist gave them to me for anxiety.

I lean against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around them. Maybe I can hold myself together until the meds start working if I squeeze tight enough.

The minutes tick by. Relief never comes. The panic doesn’t ebb. My heart is still racing, my thoughts are spiralling—and now they’ve got a sharp edge to them that wasn’t there at first.

I’ve been here before. I don’t like this part of my mind. It isn’t Holy. Maybe that’s why God is punishing me. Because I can never cleanse my thoughts of grime.

You’re so pathetic, Eden.

You can’t even calm yourself down.

No wonder they don’t want you.

That’s why your mother named you after the first sin.

I press my hands over my ears, rocking.

“Stop,” I whisper through the tears streaming down my face. “Stop it. Please. ”

But the voice in my head doesn’t stop. It only grows louder. The pills aren’t working. Panic settles on my chest, wringing the last bit of resistance out of me.

Fear.

Rejection.

It all swirls in my head, tiring my body. I dig my nails into my arms, resting my forehead on my knees. I can’t even feel the pain from clawing at my skin. There’s nothing to ground me, to keep me from floating away.

I fall backwards on the carpeted floor with a muted thud. The tiredness is settling in. My body is too heavy to move.Thoughts race through my mind so fast I’ve detached from reality. I’m dying. I’m sure of it. I can’t breathe from the tightness in my chest.

Maybe this is what I deserve.

Maybe it would be better if I just disappeared.

I make one last frantic attempt, hoping to claw my way out of my own skin. Nothing works. So I close my eyes and let the tears come.

If I’m lucky, they’ll drown me.