Page 51 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

My breath catches.

Damien’s fingers twitch beneath mine, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “But it doesn’t change anything.” He finally meets my gaze. “You know why.”

I press my lips together, my chest aching. “Rosemary’s heart.”

His silence is my answer.

I shake my head, my fingers tightening around his. “You can’t do this, Damien. You can’t sit here and tell me you have feelings for me and then act like it doesn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes, his grip on my hand tightening for the briefest second before he pulls away. “Itdoesmatter.” His voice is quiet but firm. “That’s the problem.”

I exhale shakily. “Then what do we do?”

Damien leans back, his features reflecting his resignation. “We don’t do anything.” He forces a sardonic smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the kind of guy who fights for something he knows he can’t have.”

His words hit harder than they should.

I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”

Damien’s lips quirk up in a look that’s almost sad. “Yeah, I do.” His gaze drops to my chest—where my heart beats, where each of their names are written inside of it, carved into my very being. “And so do you.”

His gaze lingers on my chest for a second longer before he exhales sharply, stepping back like putting distance between us will erase whatever is brewing in the space we’ve left unsaid.

I open my mouth to argue—to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know what’s in my heart, no matter whose name is written there—but before I can, a voice cuts through the thick silence.

"Mr. Sterling?"

We both turn at the same time. A doctor stands a few feet away, his face neutral but expectant, eyes flicking between the two of us.

Damien straightens, his expression instantly hardening into a solemn stare. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The doctor nods. “Vincent is awake.”

20

VINCENT

My chest hurts—feelslike an elephant is sitting on top of me, crushing the air from my lungs. Every breath is a battle, every second a struggle against the weight that won’t let up. Then comes the pain—sharp, relentless, like I’ve been split open from the inside. My body is on fucking fire, burning from the inside out.Fuck,the pain simmers and I clear my throat trying to breathe.

I try to move my hand to wipe my face—nothing. It doesn’t even twitch. I stare at it, willing it to move, but it just lays there, useless, like it doesn’t even belong to me.

Panic surges through me, but it’s sluggish, like my mind can’t keep up with my body’s distress. My eyelids feel like they’ve been sewn shut, my limbs foreign, unresponsive.

Am I dead?

No. Dead men don’t feel pain.

I fight against the fog, forcing my eyes open, and the world is a blur of too-bright lights and sterile white walls. Machines beepin a steady rhythm, matching the sluggish beat of my own heart. The air smells like antiseptic, too clean, too artificial.

A hospital.

Memories start creeping in—flashes of pain, of gunfire, of her screaming my name.

Willow.

My chest seizes at the thought, and I try again to move, to sit up, to find her.

Footsteps. A soft gasp.

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