Page 77 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“And you,” Cast says, his gaze locking onto mine. His voice softens slightly, but his authority is still ironclad. “Don’t test me on this, Willow. You don’t go anywhere without Ricardo. Not to class, not to the bathroom, not to breathe fresh air. Got it?”

I bristle, crossing my arms. “Cast, I’m not some porcelain doll. You can’t?—”

“I can,” he interrupts, his voice cold and firm. “And I will.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “This isn’t about control. This is about keeping you alive. That note wasn’t a joke. Whoever sent it wants you rattled—or worse.”

His words send a shiver down my spine, but I force myself to stand my ground. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with something almost primal. Then, more softly, “You’re not a pawn to me, Willow. Don’t make me regret letting you in.”

The weight of his words steals the air from my lungs, and I falter, unsure what to say.

Before I can respond, he turns to Ricardo again. “I’ll handle Damien. Keep her here until I get back.”

Ricardo gives another curt nod, and Cast spins on his heel, disappearing around the corner of the building, his phone already vibrating in his hand.

I sink onto the last row of the bleachers, my chest tightening as Ricardo settles into place beside me, his broad frame radiating silent vigilance.

The weight of Cast’s words lingers in the air as Ricardo and I sit in tense silence on the bleachers. He hasn’t said a word since Cast left, his dark eyes scanning the campus like he’s waiting for something—or someone—to make a move.

When his phone buzzes, he pulls it out, glances at the screen, and immediately rises to his feet. “We’re leaving,” he says curtly.

I blink up at him. “What? Where?”

Ricardo’s expression doesn’t soften. If anything, his jaw tightens. “Safe house. Cast’s orders.”

A prickle of irritation shoots through me. “I’m not going anywhere without an explanation.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he grabs my bag from the bleachers and slings it over his shoulder, his body language making it clear there’s no room for debate. “Now, Willow.”

I follow, my heart pounding with frustration and something darker—fear, maybe, though I hate admitting it. Ricardo’s presence is overwhelming, and as we weave through the parking lot to a black SUV, I can feel the weight of his silence pressing down on me.

The ride is quiet, save for the sound of the engine and the occasional murmur from Ricardo’s earpiece as he communicates with whoever’s on the other end. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to read him, but his face is a mask of cold efficiency.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “You could at least tell me why this safe house is necessary.”

Ricardo exhales sharply through his nose, but he doesn’t look at me. “You already know why. That note wasn’t a game, Willow. Someone’s testing the waters, and if they get the chance, they’ll drown you to make a point.”

I cross my arms, staring out the window as the city blurs into suburbs, then into nothing but open road. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No one asks for this life,” Ricardo says, his tone low and measured. “But once you’re in, there’s no getting out.”

His words send a chill through me, and I turn to face him fully. “How long have you been in?”

He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable. “Long enough to know there’s no turning back.”

I look down at my hands, letting the world speed past us as we drive in silence for a while.

“You’re special,” he says quietly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

I frown. “What does that mean?”

Ricardo turns into a neighborhood full of pastel houses, unassuming and normal, “Do you know what Cast represents? What his name means to the people who follow him?”

His eyes dart to the rearview mirror, and I shake my head, my frustration giving way to curiosity.

“He’s not just some cartel heir,” Ricardo continues, his voice low and reverent. “He’s the prince. The one who’s going to lead us into a new era. Tito’s gone. Cast is it now. And you?” He smirks, though there’s no humor in it. “You’re the queen, whether you like it or not.”

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud. “I’m not a queen,” I whisper.

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