Page 45 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

Neither of us answer.

She frowns. “Who?”

Before I can even think about what to say, a voice cuts through the tension.

"Mr. Sterling?"

We all turn. A doctor stands in the hallway, expression tight, clipboard in hand. "We have an update on Vincent."

Willow stiffens, her breath catching.

Damien steps forward, his jaw tight. “That’s me.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the doctor, already bracing for the worst.

The doctor clears his throat. “Vincent’s surgery was… complicated. The bullet went clean through his chest, skimming his lung and grazing his spine. We’ve stabilized him for now, but the damage is significant.” He pauses for a moment, watching the air hang heavy between us before continuing. “We won’t know the full extent of his recovery until he wakes up.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Willow’s eyes go wide, her hand coming up to her mouth as she stifles a gasp. Damien’s hand goes to her shoulder, a comforting weight, but the look in his eyes is dark, distant.

“Will he make it?” Willow finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper, full of raw emotion.

The doctor hesitates, his eyes flicking to Willow briefly before meeting Damien’s. “Vincent is stable for now, but…” He trails off, a deep breath following. “He will make it, but there may be complications. We’ve repaired the immediate damage, but the next few hours are critical.”

“What kind of complications?” Damien asks, his voice low but urgent.

The doctor glances over at Willow before speaking again. “His lung may not fully re-inflate, there’s a risk of infection, and there’s the possibility of paralysis from the spinal damage. The next 24 hours will tell us more about how his body will respond. We’ll continue monitoring him closely, but I need you to understand that this is far from over.”

Willow’s breath catches, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she’s trying to hold everything together. I watch her, knowing the weight of those words is crushing her. She swallows hard, her throat working like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

Damien shifts, moving closer to her. “He’s strong. He’ll pull through.” He says it more for her than for himself, but I know it’s something he needs to believe.

The doctor nods, though the skepticism doesn’t leave his eyes. “We’re doing everything we can, but it’s still touch and go. That's all we can offer for now.”

Damien turns back to the doctor. “Let us know if anything changes.”

The doctor nods again, then walks away, his footsteps echoing down the sterile hallway.

Willow's voice is small but clear, cutting through the silence left by the doctor's departure. “Can I see him?”

I see her hands tremble at her sides, a quiet plea in her eyes. She’s still holding onto the hope that seeing Vincent will make all of this feel less unreal, less fragile. I can’t blame her for wanting that—hell, I want to believe it, too.

The doctor turns back to us, his expression neutral. “I’ll take you to him, but only for a few minutes. He’s not conscious, so he won’t be able to respond right now.” He looks at Willow briefly before nodding. “It’s better if you see him while he’s still stable.”

I watch them walk down the hallway. “Damien,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension, “I need you to get everyone ready in an hour. I want all Cartel members, everyone we trust, to be in the meeting room. We’ve got a mole to hunt.”

I nod, my gaze hardening. “The only people who knew about that location were cartel higher-ups. There’s no other explanation for how they could have found us. We need to move quickly. No more mistakes.”

Damien’s jaw tightens, his eyes sharpening with the same fire I feel. “Fuck.” His hand tightens into a fist at his side. “I’ll get them all together.”

18

CAST

The warehouse smells like sweat,fear, and blood. Dim overhead lights flicker, casting shadows over the men bound to chairs, their heads slumped forward, their bodies trembling from pain, exhaustion, or both. My boots echo against the concrete floor as I take slow, deliberate steps, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. Letting them stew in their own terror.

I roll my shoulders, flex my hands. This isn’t just about finding the traitor—it’s about sending a message.

“You disappoint me,” I say, voice smooth, but edged with the promise of violence. I crouch in front of one of the men—Luis, a mid-level enforcer, someone I’ve worked with for years. His face is swollen, one eye nearly shut from the beating he took an hour ago. Blood drips from his split lip, trailing down his chin.

“I—” He swallows hard, shaking his head. “I swear, Cast, I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t?—”

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