Page 70 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

Her fingers twitch against my chest, like she wants to push me away but can’t bring herself to do it.

“And how does this end?” she asks, her voice unsteady.

I don’t hesitate. “With you as my wife.”

Willow lets out a shaky breath, her eyes locked onto mine, searching for something—doubt, uncertainty, hesitation—but she won’t find it. I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

Then, just when I think she’s about to say no again, her expression changes. Her walls crumble. And in the next breath, she moves.

I barely have time to react before she throws herself onto my lap, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body pressing into mine. A sharp gasp escapes her lips—maybe from the sheer recklessness of what she’s doing, or maybe because I let out a deep, almost pained groan when she lands against me.

I don’t care if it hurts. I don’t care about anything except the way her lips crash into mine, desperate, demanding, full of the passion we’ve both been holding back for too damn long.

I fist my hands in her shirt, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until I can’t tell where I end and she begins. She tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ll ever need.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against mine, we’re both breathing hard, our chests rising and falling in sync.

“Yes,” she whispers, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. “Yes, Vincent. I’ll marry you.”

A slow, satisfied grin spreads across my face. “Damn right you will.”

She lets out a soft laugh, her fingers threading through my hair.

I lean back slightly, just enough to take her in—to memorize the way she looks in this moment, flushed, breathless, mine.

“Mrs. Beaumont,” I murmur, savoring the way it sounds. The way it feels.

Her breath catches, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Say it again.”

I smirk, dragging my lips across her jaw, up to her ear. “Mrs. Beaumont.”

She shudders, and I know in that moment—this woman, my woman, is never getting away from me. I lean in closer to Willow, my lips hovering just above hers. The tension between us thickens, and for a moment, all I can think about is how good it feels to have her like this, completely and utterly mine. Just as I’m about to whisperMrs. Beaumontagain, a sound breaks the moment. The door creaks open, and I groan internally.

“Really?” I mutter under my breath, irritation sparking.

Damien’s voice rings out, smooth and cool, though I catch the undertone of a sardonic nature.“Damn, you two need a room.”

I roll my eyes and pull back, my body already stiffening in annoyance. “We did, someone walked into it.”

Damien stands in the doorway, his usual unreadable expression as stone-faced as ever. Cast who is standing next to him, however, doesn’t seem to care that he’s interrupting anything. He steps forward like this is just another casual drop-in, as if I wasn’t just about to make things official with Willow.

He glances at her, and then the words slip from his mouth with a finality that hits me like a punch to the gut.

“Willow,” Cast says, his tone shifting from teasing to a grim nature. “Your mother… she’s dying.”

26

WILLOW

Death seemsto be a friend of mine now and I don’t know how to stop my acquaintanceship with him. He seems to be ruthless and foolish and intent on ruining my life.

I know I ran from my mother. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t look at her after all those nights of being alone filled my brain, wishing and praying that she would come back. The loneliness— It ate me alive as a child.

I wouldn’t wish this on anyone; it is as if the minute the universe hears that I am OK, it drags me back to being small and afraid, kicking and screaming, back to being my grief-filled self.

Last time I saw my mother she didn’t look sick. She didn’t look like anything was wrong with her. In fact, she just looked older and worn yet healthy as the last time I saw her. I guess that is the fucked up part about illness, how normal everyone looks. How one minute you can look like the older version of a 34-year-old who abandoned her daughter for a ‘better’ life, and then only three months later you look as if death has touched you.

I hold my breath as my gaze shifts over the gray shadows lining my mother’s face. Her high cheekbones, once proud and full, now seem to sag with the weight of time and sickness. Her smile, though there, is empty—nothing more than a hollow echo of what used to be. The light catches her eyes, but even that can’t mask the exhaustion there, the fading sparkle that used to shine so brightly.

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