Page 3 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

“She made her choice,” I say coldly, flicking ash into the tray on the corner of my desk. “She left. And you’re sitting here like a goddamn ghost, letting her haunt you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Vincent snaps, his voice rising. He leans forward, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. “You think I haven’t tried to move on? You think I haven’t done everything I can to fix this?”

“Clearly not, because you’re still here,” I shoot back, my tone icy. “If you’re so desperate, we know where she is. You want to drag her back? Fine. Go do it.”

Vincent’s expression shifts, a dark and unreadable expression crossing his face. He looks away, his jaw tightening, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“I already tried that,” he says, the words heavy with implication.

My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. “What the hell does that mean?” I demand.

Vincent doesn’t answer immediately. He leans back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. When he finally looks at me, there’s a flicker in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Regret? Defeat? It’s hard to tell, but it sets me on edge.

Before Vincent can speak Damien strides in, his face set like stone, as he wanders over to my liquor cabinet.

“Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” I bark, irritation flaring.

He ignores me, his gaze bouncing between Vincent and me, as he pulls a glass out of the cabinet and pours a glass of the most expensive whiskey on the shelf. After a long sip, he speaks, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“She has to come home. Now.”

Vincent is the first to react, his brow furrowing as he straightens in his chair. “What are you talking about? I thought you didn’t want her to come back?”

Damien’s lips press into a thin line, and his nostrils flare as he takes a slow breath. “Willow,” he says, his voice heavy with an urgency that’s impossible to ignore. “It doesn’t matter what any of us want. She has to come back.”

My patience snaps. “You’re not making any goddamn sense,” I growl. “Why? What the hell happened?”

Damien’s eyes lock on mine, and the weight in them hits me like a freight train. “Her dad’s dead,” he says, the words clipped, almost mechanical. “And it’s our fault.”

The room falls deathly silent, no pun intended. I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say it’s some kind of sick joke. But he doesn’t. His expression remains grim, unwavering.

Vincent’s knuckles go white where his hands grip the armrests of the chair. “Our fault?” he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s a tremor in it, something I’ve never heard before. “What do you mean,our fault?”

“It was the Italians.” Damien whispers. “I know, because his left ring finger is missing. That’s their calling card.”

“If they know about Tommy,” Vincent continues, his voice rising, “it won’t take them long to connect him to her. They’ll know where she is. And if they don’t know already, they’re going to figure it out.”

Damien nods,“They’ll hunt her down just to prove a point.”

Vincent leans forward, fists unclenching as desperation tightens his voice. “If we bring her back, we put a target on her. If we leave her out there, we’re handing her over ourselves.”

Damien finishes his glass, before sharply saying. “I know.”

Vincent looks at me with crazed eyes both lingering with fear and excitement as the words leave my lips. “We have no choice. We have to bring her home.”

2

WILLOW

“I drewinspiration from Roman statues veiled in thin drapery,” I say, standing before my Inspirations Class at RISD. My grip tightens around my sketchbook as I glance at my sculpture—a blend of marble and clay. The marble veil, painstakingly carved, drapes over the clay figure beneath it.

Professor Harlow studies it, her sharp eyes unreadable. “And the veil—what does it represent?”

“Fragility and resilience,” I answer. “Marble is rigid, unforgiving, while clay is pliable but prone to cracking. Together, they reflect the tension between strength and vulnerability.”

She nods slowly. “Why mix materials?”

I swallow. “Because life isn’t one thing. Marble is permanence, an ideal. Clay is human, imperfect. I wanted to explore that contrast.”

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