Page 36 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

She stares intently at the photo. “Willow, you’re not just good. You’re amazing. You made the Chessmen look like humans. You’re gonna get in somewhere. Don’t worry about it.”

I nod, but the unease still lingers. The idea of RISD is both exciting and terrifying, but the pressure to be given a path that aligns with my heart feels like a weight. “Thanks Jazzy.”

Before she can respond, Dad calls from the kitchen, “Alright, girls. The rolls aren’t going to roll themselves!”

“He gets cornier by the day.” Jasmine sighs, and I giggle, looping my arm in hers.

We both jump up, laughing as we head toward the kitchen. The scent of something savory fills the house.

As I stand at the counter, completely covered in flour and rolling the rolls with Jasmine, a knock sounds on the door, unexpected and heavy. Dad pauses mid-movement, exchanging a confused look with me. “Expecting anyone?”

“No,” I answer, frowning. I haven’t invited anyone over, and my first thought is that it’s probably one of the Chessmen. I tense at the thought, especially after everything that’s been happening lately.

Dad heads to the door before I can do anything, and when he opens it, I hear two familiar voices. Vincent and Damien. Of course.

“Is that who I think it is?” Jasmine whisper-yells. I silently shush her and move into the hallway between the kitchen and the foyer.

“Good evening, Mr. Carter,” Vincent’s voice carries, always so smooth, as he steps inside with Damien.

“Evening,” Dad replies, pulling them in with a welcoming hand. “You boys need something?”

“We’ve got some homework for Willow,” Damien says, his eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on me hovering in the hallway. His gaze feels sharp, like he’s measuring me, trying to figure out what’s going on behind my eyes.

I stand frozen, feeling their presence like a weight behind me. I force a smile, trying to hide the wave of unease that washes over me. I haven’t seen them since our last tense encounter, and the energy in the room feels different now—charged, as if something unsaid lingers in the air.

“Well she’s right in the kitchen,” Dad nods. “I bet she will appreciate the favor.”

Jasmine, ever the observer, notices the shift and takes a step toward me, ready to intervene if need be. But before I can say anything, Vincent walks up to me, handing me a folded piece of paper with the assignments.

“Thought you might need these,” he says, his voice low, almost too casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells me he’s not as casual as he’s pretending to be.

“Thanks,” I reply, barely able to hold eye contact with him. The room feels small, too small for what’s simmering beneath the surface.

Dad snaps his finger looking at Damien who hasn’t taken his eyes off of me. “Are you on the hockey team?”

Damien nods, “Yup, center.”

“I knew it. That goal you made last week was incredible! You’re going pro.” Dad exclaims, excitement practically radiating off him. He loves any excuse to talk about sports, especially something as intense as hockey. “You boys stay for dinner, alright? The pot roast is almost done, and the girls are putting the rolls in.”

I glance at Damien, my eyes silently pleading for him to back out, to find some reason to excuse themselves. I can feel my pulse picking up, but when Damien’s lips quirk up into a smirk, I know I’m screwed. “We would love to.”

A tight smile spreads across my face, and silently I turn back into the kitchen moving back to the counter to finish the rolls.

“Tell me they are not staying.” Jasmine whispers.

“I wish they weren’t.” I mumble, and then heat engulfs my backside followed by the low rasp of Damien’s voice.

“That’s no way to treat your guests, trouble.” He whispers, leaving me cold, just as quickly as he warmed me up.

I look up to see Vincent leaning against the counter, eyes trained on me like a sniper. The room feels suddenly too small as Vincent moves closer, his presence overwhelming and addicting. He watches me with an array of guilt, regret, or something darker I can’t quite place. His proximity sends a wave of uneasethrough me, but it’s not enough to stop me from finishing the rolls. My hands move mechanically as I knead the dough, trying to keep my composure.

“You’re really good at this,” Vincent says, his voice quieter than usual, but it carries weight. “The rolls. You... you’re good at everything you do.”

I don’t look up, not wanting him to see the frustration in my eyes. Instead, I focus on the task at hand, trying to put distance between us.

Jasmine looks up, and furrows her brows at him. “Willow?”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my eyes darting to meet hers as I nod my head to the side, signaling that she can leave.

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