Page 52 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

Then—her voice.

“Vincent?”

I turn my head, and there she is.

Willow stands frozen in the doorway, her hands trembling at her sides, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. Her dark hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her clothes wrinkled, like she hasn’t changed in days. There’s something raw about her, a hollow calmness, like she’s been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since the last time I saw her.

She takes one step forward, then another, and suddenly, the dam breaks. “God, Vincent,” she chokes out, her hands clutching at the fabric of my hospital gown. “You almost—” Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, tears spilling over. “I thought I lost you.”

I want to wipe them away. Want to tell her I’m fine, that I’m not going anywhere—but the truth is, I feel like hell. My body is sluggish, weighed down by painkillers and exhaustion. The effort to move is monumental, and when I try to lift my hand, theIV tugging at my skin and the itch tube up my nostrils reminds me of just how screwed up I am.

Still, I manage to rasp out,“Takes more than that to get rid of me.”

A watery laugh bursts from her lips, and then—she’s pressing her forehead to my arm, her shoulders shaking as she cries.

I hate it.

Hate that I put that look on her face. Hate that she’s been sitting here, waiting, worrying. Hate that I wasn’t strong enough to stay awake for her when she needed me to.

I grit my teeth, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “How long?”

Willow lifts her head, sniffing. “Three weeks.”

Shit.

I close my eyes briefly, trying to process it. Three weeks of nothing. Three weeks of her sitting here, waiting for me to wake up.

I shift, attempting to sit up, but pain lances through my side like a hot blade. A curse rips from my throat, my hands clenching into fists against the sheets.

“Hey, stop—” Willow is on me in an instant, pressing her hands to my chest, urging me back down. “You’re still healing, Vincent. You can’t just?—”

“I’m fine,” I grit out.

She glares at me through her tears. “No, you’re not.”

The door swings open before I can argue. A doctor steps in, followed by a nurse and Damien stands looking at me from across the room.

I can tell by the way his jaw is set, by the way his eyes narrow on me like he’s sizing up my condition, that he’s been waiting for this.

Willow straightens, wiping at her face, but she doesn’t let go of me completely. Her fingers stay curled around my wrist like she’s anchoring herself there.

Damien crosses the room, arms folding over his chest. “You look like shit.”

I huff a weak laugh. “Feel like it, too.”

The doctor clears his throat, stepping forward. “Mr. Beaumont, good to see you awake.” His voice is calm, professional, but there’s an edge of scrutiny in his gaze as he takes me in. “We need to run a few tests, check your reflexes, and assess any potential nerve damage.”

Willow tenses beside me, her grip tightening around my wrist.

I grit my teeth. “Let’s get it over with.”

The doctor nods, pulling on a pair of gloves before signaling for the nurse to adjust my bed. The slight incline sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, but I swallow it down, locking my jaw.

“First, let’s get this feeding tube out of your nose,” the nurse says gently, offering me a reassuring smile. Her gloved hands steadily reach for the thin tube taped to my cheek.

“Take a deep breath in,” she instructs, and as I do, she carefully begins to pull. The sensation is strange—uncomfortable andunsettling, a mix of pressure and relief as the tube glides out of my throat and nostril. My eyes water involuntarily, and I blink rapidly as she sets the discarded tube aside.

“There we go,” she soothes, dabbing at my nose with a tissue. “All done.”

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