Page 41 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

She doesn’t press, just gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you to school. We’ll blast some Avril and pretend the world isn’t falling apart.”

I nod, picking up the Vincent clothing box from the front stoop. My dad gave it a wary look earlier, and Jasmine mentioned that her mother would be dropping off some supplies she needed before work. I doubt he believed us, but he has a plane to catch and no time to argue.

“I’m going to order bagels and iced coffee for pick up,” Jasmine says, her thumbs flying over her phone. “Be ready in ten?”

“Sure,” I nod, turning and heading toward my bedroom.

Once inside, I open up the box with the outfit Vincent sent neatly packed inside. The baby pink cropped cardigan is soft and delicate, the kind of thing that hugs your body just right without being too clingy. The high-waisted jeans look like they’d be flattering in an effortless way, not to mention the ankle boots—sleek, black, with just enough of a heel to feel polished but still practical, and aCoachtank top, because even when comfortable it has to be a name brand. It’s annoyingly spot-on for my style and his.

For a brief second, I run my fingers over the cardigan, the texture buttery under my touch. I imagine how Vincent must have picked it out, probably with that maddeningly confident smirk on his face. I can practically hear him saying,She’ll look good in this.I’m tempted to put it on—tempted to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got it right.

But then the weight of everything crashes over me again, and I shove the outfit aside, pulling on a pair of worn sweatpants, my oversized Betty Boop shirt and my Dad’s gray zip up hoodie instead. The shirt’s faded print and soft fabric feel like armor, and I need an entire army for today. I have to not only deal with the Chessmen, but I have to see Jasper for the first time since he assaulted me. Yeah, it's a sweatpants, messy bun day.

Vincent’s perfect ensemble can wait for a day when I don’t feel like a walking storm cloud.

I knot my hair into a bun with a couple of curly strands popping out, and slide my white Nike workout sneakers on, before grabbing my bag and meeting Jasmine at the bottom of the stairs.

She looks up at me with concern bubbling in her eyes. “Oh honey… let me make your coffee a double.”

I pout, but nod. “Or a triple.”

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By the time we pull into the school parking lot, “Complicated” is blasting from Jasmine’s speakers, and I’ve sung along half-heartedly to at least three songs. It helps, but not enough. My heart still feels heavy, dragging me down with every step.

Jasmine notices but doesn’t comment. She just walks beside me, humming along to the remnants of the last song we’d played as we head into school.

The school hallway is its usual chaos—students laughing, lockers slamming, teachers trying to corral stragglers to class—but it feels muted to me, like I’m underwater. My first class is supposed to be English, but my feet carry me in a different direction. Before I even realize it, I’m standing in front of the art studio.

Jasmine pauses beside me, her hand on my arm. “Willow, isn’t your first class…?”

“I’ll catch up later,” I mutter, not meeting her gaze. I push the door open before she can say anything else.

The room is already alive with activity. A class is in session, students hunched over their workstations as the teacher drones on about perspective and composition. I slip inside quietly, keeping my head down as I make my way to the back corner. My corner.

I grab a blank canvas and some charcoal from the supply closet, my movements automatic, like muscle memory. Sliding onto my usual stool, I let out a long breath and stare at the empty canvas in front of me. The blankness feels daunting for a moment,but then the emotions swirling inside me start to push forward, demanding release.

My hands move almost on their own, the charcoal scratching against the canvas in jagged, frantic lines. Worry takes shape first, harsh and chaotic, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Then, softer curves emerge—love, fragile and steady, threading its way through the chaos. I don’t think about what I’m drawing; I just let the emotions pour out, each stroke a piece of the ache in my chest.

The class around me fades into the background. I don’t notice the teacher glancing my way or the curious looks from a few students. It’s just me and the art, a private conversation with my heart that I can’t put into words.

And then, almost instinctively, the form starts to take shape—a face. A boy’s face, his features partially obscured, but there’s no mistaking the intensity of his blue eyes, the only thing left unscathed by the smudged charcoal. His expression is a mix of defiance and pain, a perfect match to the emotional mess on the canvas. His face is streaked with black, like the aftermath of an emotional battle, large black slashes cutting across his cheeks as if they’re the scars of some unseen war.

By the time I step back, my fingers smudged with charcoal and my hoodie sleeves streaked with gray, the piece is still unfinished but already says everything I can’t. Worry and love, tangled and inseparable, spilling out onto the canvas like a confession.

I stand back, surveying the piece. The boy’s eyes seem to stare right through me, like they know everything I’m feeling. The image is raw, disturbing in its honesty. I’m not sure where theboy’s face came from, but at this moment, it feels like he’s the embodiment of all the chaos I’ve been carrying.

“Wow,” a voice whispers behind me, breaking my focus. Miss Robinson stands there, her eyes wide, her gaze flicking between the piece and me. “I am utterly impressed, but you don’t have my class today, Miss Cater.”

I wipe my charcoal-covered hands on the damp towel she extends toward me, glancing back at the image on the canvas. “Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rough. “I had a rough morning, and I…”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at the piece. “Don’t worry,” she shakes her head gently. “I understand the plight of an artist. Sometimes, the canvas speaks louder than the world around us.” She pauses, glancing over at the clock, then smiles knowingly. “But you need to get to class before you get suspended, and I get fired for hoarding one of Thronhaven’s brightest.”

I can’t help but give a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Miss Robinson. I’ll head out now.”

She chuckles softly, crossing her arms. “You know, Willow, it is students like you that give me the will to teach.” Her voice softens. “It’s good to let the emotions out, but it’s also important to move on when the time comes. That’s the hard part of art, right? Moving on.”

I leave the art room reluctantly, one last glance at the unfinished canvas hanging in the corner. The boy’s eyes follow me, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re still watching me, pulling something from deep within. I close the door behind me, my heart still heavy, my mind muddled, but I push forward. Thehallway feels colder now, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing above, making everything feel a little more unreal, like I’m moving through a dream.

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