Page 64 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

The walk up the pathway feels longer than usual, every step deliberate as I balance Willow’s weight. Her soft, even breaths tickle my skin, grounding me in the moment. But my reprieve is short-lived.

The front door swings open before I can reach it, revealing Angie, my stepmother, in all her plasticized glory. At fifty, she’s the picture of calculated perfection, her every feature immaculately preserved by a small fortune in cosmetic enhancements.

“Well, well,” she drawls, her voice as smooth and venomous as silk. Her sharp eyes flick to Willow in my arms, a sly smile curling her lips. “Who’s the little stray?”

I grit my teeth, stepping past her without answering.

“Vincent,” she calls after me, her tone taking on a saccharine edge that makes my skin crawl. “I thought we had an understanding about guests inmyhouse.”

I pause, my back to her as the word "my" grates against me. Slowly, I turn, keeping my expression cold. “This house isn’t yours, Angie. It was my grandfather’s. It’ll be mine when I am 25.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a glint of annoyance in her eyes. “Until then, pretty boy, it’s mine to run as I see fit. And I don’t appreciate uninvited guests, especially ones who look so... common.”

Her gaze drops to Willow, and my grip on her tightens instinctively. Angie’s condescension has always been a thorn inmy side, but right now, with Willow vulnerable in my arms, it’s unbearable.

“Stay out of it,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous.

Angie takes a step closer, her manicured nails reaching up to trail along my jaw. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Vincent,” she purrs, her claws grazing my skin. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I go rigid, every muscle in my body coiling with restrained anger.

Willow stirs slightly, her brow furrowing as if she senses the tension. “Vincent?” she murmurs groggily.

“It’s nothing,” I snap, sharper than I intend.

Her eyes flutter open, confusion clouding her gaze. “Are you okay?”

“I said it’s nothing. Mind your business,” I bite out, regretting it the second the words leave my mouth. Her face falls, but she doesn’t argue, her head drooping back against my shoulder.

I carry her to her room, setting her down gently on the bed. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with wide, hurt eyes that make my chest tighten. I force myself to turn away, stepping out and closing the door behind me.

It’s only when I’m in my own room, the door locked and the world shut out, that I finally exhale. My hands shake as I press them against the wall, my forehead resting against the cool surface. The image of Angie’s smug smile lingers, but it’s the look on Willow’s face that haunts me.

19

WILLOW

Idon’t sleep well.

The mattress is soft, the sheets smell like Vincent—clean, warm, and something faintly citrusy—but it doesn’t matter. My thoughts are louder than any comfort his guest bed can offer.

The image of his face moments ago, normally so sunny and playful, darkened by anger and frustration, drills into my consciousness. I can’t shake the tension in his voice when he talked to his stepmother, or the way his hands trembled, just barely, as he carried me to the bedroom across from him.

Vincent, always steady and sure, had cracked today. And it was his stepmother’s fault. What could she have possibly done to him?

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they’re relentless. My fingers clutch the blanket as I stare at the ceiling, shadows dancing across it in the dim sunrise filtering through the window. Vincent’s house is too big, too quiet, and I feel lost in it.

A part of me considers tiptoeing to Vincent’s room. Would he be awake too? Would he be pacing, trying to figure out how to avoid breakfast with his parents and me? Or would he be asleep, his chest rising and falling in that calm, steady way he does everything?

I imagine knocking softly, peeking in to find him sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Maybe he’d look up, his expression softening when he sees me. He’d smile, tell me to come in, tell me everything’s fine—even though it’s not. It never is.

But I can’t bring myself to move. I don’t know what I’d say if I did. I don’t even know what I want from him right now. Comfort? Reassurance? A distraction? None of it feels right when I’ve already dragged him into my mess.

The hours stretch endlessly, and by the time the sun is readily settled in the morning sky, I feel like I’ve been running a marathon in my mind. My body is exhausted, but sleep never comes.

The soft sound of a door creaking open pulls me from my thoughts. I sit up slightly, my heart skipping a beat, and then I hear the familiar cadence of Vincent’s footsteps. They’re lighter than Cast’s, more purposeful, and something about that sound immediately sets me at ease.

A moment later, there’s a gentle knock at my door, followed by Vincent’s voice, low and soft.

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