Page 54 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“Minor detail,” Vincent says, his voice low and teasing as he steps closer, his presence radiating warmth. “How about this? I’ll be your very own Jason Dean. Minus the body count.”

I stop walking and turn to face him, my heart doing a funny little somersault. “You’d blow up a school for me?”

He chuckles, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl from my face. “If it meant I’d get to be the only one standing beside you at the end? Absolutely.”

His words are playful, but the way he looks at me isn’t. His dark eyes are soft, intent, as if he’s memorizing every detail of my face. The weight of his hand lingers, his thumb gently grazing my cheek. My breath hitches, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to look away.

And then, before I can think, before I can second-guess, I kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not shy. It’s all the pent-up tension, the confusion, the longing that I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. My hands clutch the lapels of his jacket as I pull him closer, as if I can tether myself to him and stop the spinning of the world.

He doesn’t hesitate. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his lips parting against mine with a fervor that makes my knees weak. His touch is firm, grounding, as one hand tangles in my hair while the other holds me steady, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Heat floods every inch of me, and the world dissolves until it’s just him—his lips, his hands, the way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. It’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything I didn’t know I needed.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, my chest heaving as I stare up at him. His pupils are blown wide, his expression caught somewhere between amazement and something darker, something dangerous.

“I should walk you the rest of the way,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, though I can feel the tension in the way his fingers flex against my back.

“Yeah,” I whisper, my lips tingling, my head spinning.

We make it to my door, the air between us charged with something I can’t quite name. Vincent stops, turning to face me fully, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders.

“Goodnight, Willow,” he says softly, dipping his head to press one last kiss to my lips. It’s tender, unhurried, and sweet in a way that sends my heart into overdrive.

When he pulls back, I realize I’m frozen, my hand clutching the doorknob like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My mind races, and panic crashes over me like a wave.

This is the first time I’ve kissed him—kissed anyone—willingly. There was no contract, no coercion, no games. Just me. And him. And it was perfect.

Too perfect.

“I—” I stammer, my voice barely audible. “Goodnight.”

I dart inside before he can respond, leaning against the closed door, my heart pounding in my ears.

What just happened?

I lean against my door. My lips swollen and tasting of Vincent’s sweet mintiness.

16

WILLOW

Iwake up still riding the high of last night. My lips feel bruised from Vincent’s kiss, my skin still tingling from the way his fingers brushed mine when he said goodnight. It’s like a dream I don’t want to wake up from, but reality wastes no time pulling me back down to earth.

The contract. The rules. The fact that this is all still part of some larger game I barely understand.

I throw on an oversized white sweater, letting it hang off one shoulder, the soft fabric brushing against my collarbone. Paired with a denim tennis skirt and my white cowboy boots, I feel like myself again—comfortable, a little playful, and nothing like the girl who spent last night unraveling under Vincent’s intense gaze.

When I step outside, his sleek black car is already parked at the curb, gleaming in the soft morning light. He’s leaning casually against the passenger door, a picture of effortless charm in a perfectly tailored black blazer and a crisp white shirt. His sunglasses catch the sunlight, and his smirk—crooked and devastating—is a weapon all on its own.

In his hands are a travel mug and a cinnamon raisin bagel slathered with almond honey cream cheese. My favorite.

“Good morning, Willow,” he says smoothly, his voice warm and teasing as he steps forward and opens the door for me.

I glance inside, spotting my backpack neatly waiting on the seat. The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my chest tighten, and I slide the bag onto the floor before settling in.

“Thank you,” I murmur, ducking my head as heat rises to my cheeks. My fingers tighten slightly around the bagel, the simple yet perfect offering making it impossible to hide the shy smile tugging at my lips. I inhale the scent of the coffee, and fuck me because the coffee is french vanilla -- how does he always know?

---