Page 34 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

I stand frozen, my chest tight with conflicting emotions. Fear twists in my gut, sharp and unrelenting, but there’s something else—something darker, hotter, that simmers beneath the surface and scares me even more. I’ve never seen Vincent like this, never seen him lose control, and the fact thatIcould bring this side out of him terrifies me.

He pauses at the door, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. For a moment, I think he might look back at me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he yanks the door open, the metal creaking under his grip, and disappears into the hallway with Jasper in tow.

The locker room falls silent, save for the faint hum of the showers in the distance. My legs finally give out, and I slide to the floor, my back pressed against the cool metal lockers. My hands shake as I touch my neck, the phantom of Vincent’s grip lingering like a brand.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push down the rush of emotions swirling inside me—fear, confusion, and a maddening heat that I don’t know how to name. My breathing steadies, but my heart doesn’t.

What scares me most isn’t Vincent’s violence. It’s the way it made me feel: protected, loved, turned on and unbelievably alive.

10

WILLOW

Painting has always been my escape, the only thing that gives me peace within the madness of my mind. The only thing that makes sense after Vincent brutally attacked Jasper for me. Did Jasper deserve it? Of course he did; he had planned to hurt me. He planned on showing me how mad he was that I was with the Chessmen. All because he believed I belonged to him and that we were meant to be together.

“Idiot,” I whisper, slashing a black line of paint across the image of a hand breaking into the chest of the faceless figure. I don’t know if I am saying that to me, or Jasper or Vincent.

My hand pauses mid-stroke, the brush trembling between my fingers as a bitter laugh escapes me, and the memories of last week claw at me like wild animals, refusing to let go.

Vincent’s face flashes in my mind—the way his jaw tightened, the storm brewing in his eyes before he snapped. His rage was terrifying, beautiful in its unrestrained intensity. A part of me wanted to scream at him to stop, to walk away, but another part, a darker part, reveled in his fury. He did it for me. Forme.

In the past week Vincent hasn’t left me alone either.

The brush dips into crimson now, the color spreading like blood across the canvas, staining the image of the faceless figure. “Idiots,” I whisper again, harsher this time, my voice cracking under the weight of everything.

My eyes blur, and for a moment, I can’t tell if it’s the paint or tears distorting the picture. It doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because no amount of paint will change what happened. Or erase the guilt that gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.

The brush slips from my hand, clattering as it falls to the ground, the clatter breaking the silence in the room. Breathing heavily, I take a step back, staring at the mess I’ve made—on the canvas, in my life, everywhere.

The phone on my desk buzzes again.

Vincent.

My heart skips a beat as his name flashes across the screen, but the pit in my stomach sinks deeper with the incoming call. This is the thirty-first call today, and it’s only 4 p.m. Not to mention the 78 text messages that I barely have the energy to respond to.

His presence gnaws at me even when he’s not around, like a phantom that refuses to leave.

The way he looks at me—like he’s starving for something I don’t even understand—has a grip on me that I can’t shake.

It unsettles me, twists me in ways that leave me breathless, and that confusion threatens to drown me.

I glance at the phone but don’t reach for it. He’s been texting me nonstop since what happened with Jasper, and while part of meis drawn to the intensity of his messages, another part of me is terrified.

He won’t stop—won’t let me breathe—and I’m afraid of what he’ll demand from me next. But I don’t answer unless I absolutely have to. I can’t deal with that right now, I respond with the same thing over and over again:Give me some space.

All I want is time to process, be alone and figure myself out, because no boy should make me feel afraid, turned on and protected in the same breath.

I shouldn’t have been so weak with his hand around my throat and the words of protection on his tongue. I should have run, but I didn’t and I don’t know why.

I don’t understand the control the Chessmen have over me. And until I can figure it out, I need all of them, but especially Vincent.

The ringing from the call ends, and I let out a shaky breath just to suck it in again when the doorbell rings, because if that is Vincent, Cast, or even worse— fucking Damien, I am going to lose my shit.

I will go absolutely ballistic on them, because not only did I ask for space, Dad is home. This is his first day off in four months and I will not let the three stooges ruin my time with him.

With a deep, shaky breath, I push myself off the chair, my heart already pounding as I make my way toward the door. “I got it!” I call out to Dad as I jog down the stairs.

When I open the door, I’m greeted by Jasmine’s familiar grin.

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