Page 1 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

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WILLOW

“You are moving so fucking slow, Will!” Jasmine whines, kicking my bedroom door with the heel of her studded Doc Martens, the dull thud reverberating through the house.

She’s right; we’re late as hell, and we’re bound to earn a glaring red mark on our attendance record and a solid hour of after school detention if I don’t hurry up. But none of that matters whentheVincent Beaumont, self-proclaimed King of Thornhaven, thinks he has you at his beck and call. Which, technically, he does.

Well, he and the rest of the Chessmen: Juan “Cast” Castillo, the Rook and certified insane cartel heir, and Damien Sterling, the Knight and the guy who literally hates me with a passion.

So yeah, I am officially screwed—and not in the fun way.

At six o’clock this morning, he had the audacity to send me a box, complete with a personal note written in his own handwriting—no maids, no assistants, just Vincent's demanding words:

Willow,

Wear this. Meet us at my locker at 8 a.m. for inspection. Cast also wants your hair in curls.

Vincent

Succinct. Sharp. Absolutely unbearable—just like Vincent himself. When I opened my front door and saw the pink satin box, I nearly spit out my coffee on the poor courier standing there with it.

Thank God my Dad had already left for the construction site because if he’d been around to seethispackage, he’d have gone charging over to Vincent’s with his shotgun, talking about how Beaumont’s got another thing coming if he thinks he can tell me what to wear, and what type of boy thinks he can control his baby girl, whether he’s a billionaire or not.

Instead, I snatched the package from the courier’s hands and sprinted to my room, where I took a solid thirty minutes just working up the nerve to open it.

And when I finally put it on, damn—I looked so hot I screamed. Then I cursed Vincent's name to the heavens, and then I screamed again.

Inside the box: a fitted, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that was so soft it had to be cashmere, hugging my body like it was custom-tailored just for me. Paired with a blue denim mini skirtadorned with a delicate chain of gold links right along the hip, glinting just enough to make a statement.

On closer inspection, I noticed the Givenchy logo, snug on the button, plus a matching black belt that made the whole thing feel ten times more luxe than I have ever felt in my life. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Vincent had added knee-high, slouchy black leather cowboy boots to the mix with a heel that gave just the right lift.

Every piece fit me like a second skin. And even underneath it all, there was the white lingerie set, barely-there and somehow still tastefully sexy. Of course,thatgot me wondering how they knew my exact bra size, but that was a question for another day.

The look was undeniably sexy, chic and would totally make me stand out at school. I mean, I felt like a million bucks, but could I actually wear it? No.

I cringed at the idea of prancing around in an outfit handpicked by a boy, specifically picked out for me by a boy, but fucking Vincent Beaumont? No way would I give him the satisfaction.

I agreed to belong tothe Chessmenfor the next four months, whatever that meant, but that didn’t mean I was going to be their dress-up doll. Sure, I might tolerate a little humiliation, a flirtatious brush of their hand, or the bone-shattering orgasm they’d left me with last Saturday—but being their personal little Barbie doll? No. Never That is where I draw the line. I needed some autonomy, right?

Besides, this whole ‘Belonging to the Chessmen’ thing is complete bullshit. They could have just been good guys, and given me the hundred fifty thousand dollars because that amount is essentially Kleenex for Cast and Vincent.

Damien, though—he’s a little different. A hundred grand means something to him, so if I had to pay him back, I would. I mean, I already owe the guy my life; what’s a couple thousand dollars more?

So after trying it on, taking a few pics, because I had to immortalize how good I looked and pacing back and forth in my bedroom for twenty minutes.

I tossed on my favorite low-rise flare jeans, paired with a long sleeve gray baby tee that reads We the People Totally Agree in graffiti-style lettering across the chest. I slid on my signature black Converse, sliding the cream-colored note into my back pocket. My hair was still a mess of black and pink curls because, well, I was running late. But if I’d had the time? Trust me, I’d have straightened it into oblivion just to spite him.

“I am counting down from five, then I am leaving your ass here and you’re going to have to explain to your DILF how you missed school!” Jasmine yells, at the top of her lungs and I swear our next door neighbors could hear her, including her parents.

I swing open my bedroom door scowling. “You’re not supposed to use the key unless it’s an emergency.”

Jasmine rolls her eyes, stuffing a piece of my homemade corn muffin into her mouth before looking into my room at the mess of clothes and Vincent’s package. “Will, is that a package on your bed?”

I look back, my eyes wide, swipe my bookbag from off the floor and close my bedroom door. “None ya.”

I shake my head and slide from in front of her scowling face, then she huffs following me down the stairs. “What do you mean ‘none ya’? When did you start showing at Givenchy?”

If this were anything else, I’d spill to Jasmine in a heartbeat. We’ve been besties since diapers, after all. But how do you tell your oldest friend, “Oh, by the way, those guys at school who basically hate me? Yeah, I kinda sold myself to them. For one hundred fifty thousand dollars. For the next four months.”

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