Page 47 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“And yet, you’re still here,” he counters, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “Now, no more arguing, get some sleep.”

He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. My heartstumbles—not the bad kind this time, but the kind that makes me hyper-aware of how close he is, how safe I feel when he’s near.

“Vincent-”

Before I can continue, he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. It’s warm, tender, and leaves a trail of heat in its wake, spreading through me like a spark catching fire.

For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Vincent pulls back, his eyes lingering on mine like he’s trying to say something he can’t quite put into words. “Goodnight, Willow,” he whispers, his voice low and velvety, like a promise wrapped in comfort.

“Night Vincent,” I manage, my voice barely audible, but he’s already turning away, heading for the door.

He pauses just before he leaves, glancing back with that signature smirk of his, softened by the edges of something unspoken. “Dream about me, okay?”

And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone in the quiet room. But the warmth of his kiss lingers, and as I sink back into the soft duvet, I realize that for the first time in a long while, the thought of tomorrow doesn’t feel so overwhelming.

14

VINCENT

She’s here. My Princess. My little devil. The girl I’ve been obsessed with since I was fourteen is finally here, in my house, wrapped up in my comforter, and sleeping just across the hall. I fucking won.

Every inch of me buzzes with the knowledge that she’s under my roof, safe where she belongs. The years I’ve spent watching her, wanting her, waiting for the perfect moment—it all led to this. To her being so close, so real, that I can feel her presence even through the walls.

She should’ve been wrapped in my clothes, too—if I’d been quicker, if I hadn’t hesitated for just a second. But when she stood there earlier, looking so small, so unsure of herself, even with fire in her eyes and venom on her tongue, I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. She was a perfect storm, beautiful and untouchable, and all I wanted to do was drag her into my arms, bury my face in her neck, and kiss her until her lips were swollen and her breath was mine.

But that’s okay. She’ll have to deal with that later. I’ll make sure of it. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine in every waythat matters. I’ve already imagined how it’ll happen: my hands gripping her waist, her lips parting under mine, that fire of hers melting into something softer, sweeter—something only I get to see. And when that moment comes, I’ll finally take what I’ve been craving for so long.

Soon, she’ll be in love with me, obsessed with me, the way I am with her, and everything will fall into place. It won’t just be perfect—it’ll be a masterpiece if she loves Cast the way I know she can, and Damien finally lets go of his grudge and loves her too. Then, I’d be impressed. Amazed, even. Because she’s the key to all of us, and with her, everything will finally be as it should.

She’s already had my life in a fucking free fall, just by being near.

Normally, I’m disciplined—almost militant. My days run on a schedule, strict but not as insane as Damien’s. No one’s routine rivals Damien’s. A part of the reason he hates her, I think, is that since this whole thing started, she’s interrupted his routine twelve times. Not just his day—his entireweek.I mean, I’d love to have the power to throw Damien off balance like that, but of course, only my little devil knows how.

My own routine is usually sacred: seven hours of sleep, gym every morning except Sundays, and absolutely no lounging in bed once I’m awake. But knowing Willow’s here, just across the hall, is unraveling me. I swear I can still smell her—spicy cherry vanilla, sharp and intoxicating—and it’s driving me fucking insane.

Sleep? Not a chance. If I wake up and realize this was all a dream, I’ll lose it. I’d hunt her down without hesitation, drag her back here, and make sure she never leaves me again. I’d throw her over my shoulder, tie her to my bed if I had to, and erase anyidea of space or needing her own room. She doesn’t need it—she doesn’t get it.Not with me.

She’s mine. She’ll stay with me, close, inseparable. And the best part? She’ll like it. She might fight, she might argue, but in the end, she’ll see the truth. She belongs with me. She always has. It’s her fault that she doesn’t know it, because she doesn’t fucking listen. She’s so stubborn, a know it all, a brat with the pinkest lips and cutest dimples in her cheeks and big black curls that drive me fucking wild every time she picks them up, or they swing above her perfect ass.

Shit.Just thinking about her and I am hard as a fucking rock.

I turn onto my side and look out of the window. The sun is already high, painting the room in golden light. Mid-morning. She’s probably still asleep, wrapped up in my comforter, breathing softly, her hair a mess. I imagine the way she’ll look when she wakes up—groggy, a little annoyed, and probably ready to snap at me. I can’t wait.

But when should I wake her? Now? Later? God, the anticipation is killing me. I want to see her. No, Ineedto see her. Still, there’s something oddly satisfying about letting her rest, knowing that this is me, taking care of her. I’ve never taken care of anyone in my life, but I’d do anything for her.

My stomach growls, pulling a groan from my throat. Breakfast. She probably hasn’t eaten yet. Normally, I’d just ring the damn bell and let someone handle it, but this feels... different. Personal. I’ve never cooked in my life, but how hard could it really be? Eggs, toast, coffee—straightforward enough. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll be impressed. Not that I need her to be. Well, not entirely. I want her to be impressed.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through my messy hair, and stand. It’s too early to care about appearances, so I stick with the essentials: boxers and nothing else. The house is warm, and honestly, I don’t feel like dressing up for anyone but her, and the idea of her being flustered as I hand her breakfast makes me more than excited, so I exit my room in my black boxers and nothing else.

As I step into the hallway, the smell of polished wood and fresh flowers greets me. But so does something else—someone, actually. Franklin.

He’s standing there, rigid as ever, his sharp black suit pristine, not a wrinkle in sight. His gray hair is combed back immaculately, and his salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed to perfection. His posture screams discipline, and his expression is one of pure disapproval. It’s the scowl I’ve known my entire life, the one that says,I can’t believe you’re doing this right now, young man.

“Good morning, Franklin,” I say casually, because despite the fact that this man raised me since I was a baby, which means I respect him to a point, he is still an employee. If a man can’t walk around in his boxers, in his own house then what’s the point.

His eyes narrow, flicking down to my boxers before settling back on my face. “Good morning, Master Vincent. Might I inquire as to why you are parading around half-dressed in the middle of the hallway?”

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