Page 5 of Lords of Ruin: Owned

“You watch your back. I know all about your little arrangement, and it’s only a matter of time before the boys get bored and ask me to finish you off.” Without waiting for a response, she turns on her heels and storms off toward the school, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

I reach for Damien’s outstretched hand, and the moment our fingers touch, a jolt of heat shoots through me. He pulls me out of the car with an effortless strength, his grip firm but not harsh. The door clicks shut behind me, but I barely notice because he’s so close—so much closer than I’m prepared for.

The scent of him hits me like a punch to the chest, an intoxicating mix of ash and leather, so deliciously dangerous that it makes my knees weak and I have no choice but to use the car to keep me standing.

My fingers still tangled with his for half a second too long before I let go. My gaze locks onto his grey eyes—an arresting mix of dark and light—that pins me in place between the cold metal of the car at my back and the heat radiating off of him.

My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, my heart hammering so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. Damien doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move.

The sunlight hits him just right, casting shadows that sharpen his features, making him look like some dark, untouchable god—looming over me with no intention of offering salvation.

My heart pounds against my ribs, and before I can stop myself, the words spill out of me in a rushed, nervous tumble.

“I thought you hated me.”

Damien’s lips twitch, and for a second, I think he’s going to ignore me. But then he laughs—a deep, rich sound that sends sparks of want dancing across my skin. He steps closer, crowding me against the car, his broad frame blocking out the sunlight.

“Oh, I do, Pet,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. His hand rests on the roof of the car, caging me in, and his eyes lock onto mine with a predatory intensity. “But I can’t break my new toy so fast.”

My breath catches as he leans in just enough for his scent—leather, ash and something else sharp and masculine like gasoline—to fill my senses.

“I’ve been waiting to break you for a long time,” he continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And trust me, I will. But not yet. Not until I’ve had my fun.”

The words hang between us, heavy and electric. I’m too stunned to move, too overwhelmed to think. Damien’s gaze dips to my lips for the briefest moment before he straightens, taking a deliberate step back and giving me just enough space to breathe again.

“Get to class, Pet,” he says, his tone casual now, like he didn’t just say that he wanted to break me. Like I don’t feel like a dead man walking.

I stumble away from him, clutching my bag tightly as I watch him slide back into the driver’s seat. The Charger roars to life, and before I can even process what just happened, he’s gone, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat and the ghost of his words echoing in my head.

3

WILLOW

“Miss Carter, it is wonderful that you cared to join us,” Mr. Henderson mocks, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stands at the front of the room, his arms crossed. The class titters, a few stifled laughs echoing around me. My face heats up instantly, and I duck my head, trying to ignore the weight of every pair of eyes suddenly boring into me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, shoving my phone into my bag. The screen briefly flashes the unknown number’s message before disappearing from view. I shift in my seat, trying to make myself as small as possible under the scrutiny.

Mr. Henderson shakes his head and gestures toward the whiteboard where he’s scrawledThe Theme of Identity in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “Now that we have Miss Carter’s undivided attention, let’s return to the text. Identity and disguise play critical roles in Shakespeare’s work. Who can explain how these themes are explored in the character of Helena?”

I let out a silent sigh of relief as the teacher's focus shifts back to the lesson. I carefully pull my laptop and the borrowed copy of the play out of my bag and set them on the desk.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and when I glance around the room, I catch more than a few glances flickering in my direction. It’s this stupid, beautiful, yet totally not my style outfit, I know it.

The cashmere sweater is clingy in all the wrong—or right—places, and the denim mini skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It's not my usual style; I'm more of a hoodie and t-shirt kind of girl.

The only time anyone sees me in revealing clothes is during gym class and that’s because the uniform policy requires me to wear shorts and a t-shirt that are exactly my size, not too small and not too big, for ‘safety purposes’.

The outfit I wore to Vincent's birthday party was probably the most daring thing I've ever worn, but at least I trusted that everyone was too drunk or high to remember.

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate my body, but I definitely don't want anyone ogling it. There's a large scar down the center of my chest from surgery, and I'm not as slim or toned as girls like Isabel. But that's okay with me - I love hot Cheetos and pasta too much to give them up for some unrealistic body standards.

As I sulk about not thinking through this morning's outfit choice, I curse myself for not realizing how much attention it would draw. If I had thought about it beforehand, I would have flipped off Damien and made a run for Jasmine's car, consequences be damned.

I can’t spend an entire day at school with everyone looking at me; maybe I can go to the nurse and say I feel sick and need to go home.

My phone vibrates in my bag again, and my heart skips a beat. Against my better judgment, I sneak a glance while Mr. Henderson’s back is turned.

Unknown Number: Word around the halls is Willow Carter’s turning heads in that little mini skirt of hers. Hot as hell, little devil.

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