Page 49 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

“The gasps. The gurgles. That last, wet little sound they make when they realize it’s over.” My grip tightens just slightly, not in restraint, but in possession. “It’s a symphony. One that means justice. That means vengeance. That meanspower.”

She exhales shakily, but she doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not broken, Willow.” My lips brush against her temple. “You’refree.”

A fresh tear slips down her cheek, but this time, there’s no fear in her eyes. No doubt. Just something raw, something unspoken.

She belongs to me. And I belong to her.

And we’ll burn the world down together.

19

WILLOW

Vincent looks sosmall in the hospital bed. The monitors beep steadily, a slow, rhythmic sound that should be reassuring. But all I can hear is the echo of my own guilt, rattling inside my skull like a bullet that never found its way out.

It’s been three weeks since the surgery. Three weeks of waiting, watching, hoping. Three weeks of doctors murmuring about lung capacity, spinal trauma, and risks I can’t bring myself to fully process. Three weeks of knowing that he got hurt because ofme.

I shift in the stiff chair beside his bed, my fingers curling into my lap. His face is pale, almost sickly under the fluorescent lights, but he’s stillVincent. Strong, stubborn, alive. Barely, but alive.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the machines.

I don’t expect an answer. Of course I don’t. But I wish he would wake up—just enough to call me an idiot, to tell me I’m being dramatic, to glare at me like I should know better.

Instead, he sleeps.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat, blinking hard. “You shouldn’t have been there,” I murmur. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt because of me.”

Because I ran. Because I panicked. Because I killed Ricardo and didn’t know what else to do exceptrun.

The image of Ricardo’s lifeless eyes flashes behind my eyelids. The warmth of his blood, the way it coated my hands, my arms, soaked into my clothes—it’s all burned into me. But the worst part, the part that coils inside me like a secret too dark to name, is that Ilikedit.

I squeeze my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms, grounding myself in the sting.

Vincent shifts slightly in his sleep, his fingers twitching against the blanket. My breath catches.

“Vin?” I lean in, barely breathing.

Nothing. Just another small movement, maybe a dream, maybe nothing at all. My stomach knots.

I reach out, hesitating before brushing my fingertips over his wrist. His skin is warm—real, solid, alive. But I don’t know if I deserve to touch him.

Not after everything I’ve done. Not after saying no to him when all he wanted to do was love me for the rest of my life.

The door creaks open, and I stiffen, my hand snapping back from Vincent’s wrist like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

Damien steps inside, his sharp eyes flicking from me to Vincent, taking in the scene without saying a word. His face is neutral,but there’s a countenance behind his gaze—concern, exhaustion, maybe both.

“How long have you been sitting here?” His voice is rough, quiet.

I glance at the clock. I don’t know. Hours? A lifetime? “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damien exhales through his nose, then his gaze sweeps over me, assessing. “Have you eaten?”

I shake my head without thinking.

His jaw tenses, and for a second, I expect a lecture, but he just runs a hand over his buzzed hair and mutters, “Of course you haven’t.” Then he nods toward the door. “Come on.”

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