Page 66 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

It’s never enough.

I’m breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts, when I hear the heavy creak of the arena doors. My shoulders tense, my body reacting before my brain catches up. No one’s supposed to be here. Not this late.

The soft clink of glass echoes through the empty rink.

I glance toward the entrance and immediately know—Cast.

He stands just beyond the barrier, one arm resting lazily on the railing, the other gripping a half-drained bottle of beer like it’s the only thing holding him together. He looks like hell. His dark brown curls are a mess, falling in wild disarray over his forehead, and his green eyes—normally sharp, full of barely concealed amusement—are bloodshot. Shadowed. Wrecked.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Then he lifts the bottle in a mock toast. “Figured I’d find you here.” His voice is rough, raspier than usual.

I skate toward the edge of the rink, pushing up against the barrier. “You look like shit.”

He huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a scoff. “Yeah, well, you don’t look much better, cabrón.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes me in. “You sleep?”

I don’t answer.

He frowns, but it’s a hollow thing, lacking his usual bite. “Didn’t think so.”

Up close, he looks worse than I thought. The smudges beneath his eyes are darker, deeper. There’s a tension in his jaw, a weariness in the way he holds himself, like something’s been eating him alive from the inside out. The kind of exhaustion that sleep won’t fix. The kind that festers.

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask.

Cast’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his grip tightening around the bottle until his knuckles go white. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a haunted appearance in his bloodshot green eyes. Something fractured.

He finally exhales, slow and measured, then mutters, “Valentina is my sister.”

For a second, I think I misheard him. The words don’t make sense. Can’t make sense.

“What?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.

Cast’s lips twitch, but it isn’t amusement—it’s something bitter. “You heard me, cabrón.” He takes a long pull from his beer before setting the bottle down on the rink barrier. His hand lingers there, fingers drumming against the glass like he needs the movement to keep himself from shattering.

I shake my head, my mind racing. “You’re telling me the woman who threatened Willow and almost killed Vincent—the assassin I’ve been hunting—is your fucking sister?”

His jaw flexes. “Yeah.”

I stare at him, searching for some sign that this is a joke. Some sick, twisted attempt at humor. But Cast isn’t laughing. He’s not even smirking.

“Since when?” I demand. “Since when have you known?”

“Since two days ago.” His voice is tight, strained. He runs a hand through his messy curls, gripping the back of his neck. “I knew my father trusted Ricardo in a way he didn’t trust anyone. But I didn’t know why.” He exhales, his shoulders dropping. “Not until I finally saw her; she looks exactly like my mother.”

I should say something. Should react. But my brain is still struggling to keep up. Valentina. Cast’s sister.

The assassin who almost killed Willow.

The woman I’ve spent weeks fantasizing about ending.

My stomach twists, rage warring with a sentiment I can’t name.

Cast meets my gaze, his green eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “Yeah.”

The word is sharp. Final.

I swallow hard. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

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