Page 71 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

Her once-defined jawline is now skeletal, hollowed out by whatever poison is eating her from the inside. Her hand shakes slightly as she taps on the table, a nervous tic I’ve seen numerous times, but now it feels like a desperate plea for control.

“Come on, Will bear,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “You got to talk to me. You got to say something.”

She tilts her head at an odd angle, almost childlike in the way she looks up at me. Like she expects me to just forgive her, to let everything slide because now, when death is knocking on her door, she wants a moment of connection.

The anger inside me churns, hot and raw, threatening to spill over. I want to scream, tell her all the things that have been festering inside me for years.

The things I’ve carried around like a weight. ‘You abandoned me. You left me to pick up the pieces of a broken family while you ran off to live your life. And now, you expect me to care? Good luck, Mom. I hope cancer doesn’t kill you as quickly as the guilt that you’ll never feel for what you did.’

Or how about this: ‘Fuck you for even thinking that when you're on your deathbed, you have the right to talk to me like this. To expect me to just open up and say something that means anything at all.’

But then, the words I’ve rehearsed in my mind so many times before suddenly feel hollow. How does it sound to say, ‘I love you, Mom. I miss you. I miss Dad. And I’m scared... and I feel like I’m alone’? How does that feel? Like shit. It’s all bullshit.

Before I came here, I wrote letters. I thought maybe if I put it all down on paper, I’d feel better. But now, standing here, looking at her—none of it matters.

I don’t want to say anything at all.

I wish I could shut my mouth, just walk away and leave her to her death, but the pain that weighs me down, the rawness of everything, keeps me rooted to this spot. And still, the silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as I try to figure out what to do with all the chaos inside me.

“OK, how about I talk first? I will tell you everything you need to know about the last couple of years of my life. Where should I start?” She thrums her fingers against the table with an excited gleam in her eye. “Five years ago I went to Paris. I really want to go-”

”What?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and I glance out the window at the guys, who are leaning against Damien’s Dodge Challenger and staring at us as if we’re prey—well as if my mother is prey. When my eyes land on Vincent, he winks at me and my cheeks beat a bright red.

“So while dad and I were starving, trying to figure out where our next meal was coming from, you were gallivanting around inParis?” I fold my arms over my chest and scrunch up my nose in a sarcastic manner. “How fun!”

My mother’s smile falters, but she quickly recovers, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Paris was a gift, Will. A moment of freedom. You wouldn’t understand.”

I want to scream. I want to tear into her, ask her how she could abandon us and then run off to Paris. How does that make sense? But the words don’t come out. Instead, I sit there, simmering in my own anger, biting down on the resentment that threatens to choke me.

"Right," I say, my voice tight with disbelief. "Freedom. Meanwhile, Dad and I were just trying to stay alive while you were sipping wine by the Eiffel Tower."

Her face twitches, and she shifts in her chair uncomfortably. The excuse hangs in the air between us, but I don’t believe it. I never did.

"Willow, you need to understand," she starts, her voice softer now, almost pleading. "There’s more to it than you think. You think I had it easy, but I didn’t. I had my own demons to fight."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And where were you when I needed you? When I was seven and wondering why my mother didn’t want to be around? When I was fifteen, my heart was failing, needing my mother —where were you then?"

Her face tightens, but there’s no denial, no defense. She just looks at me, those same empty eyes, and for the first time, I see a flicker of regret. But it’s not enough. Not enough to undo everything.

The silence hangs heavy again, and I find myself getting lost in the chaos of my emotions. There’s so much I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Part of me wants to walk out, to leave this all behind and forget about her. But another part of me is trapped, stuck in the past, still hoping—no matter how much I wish I could stop—that some part of her will finally see me; that she’ll finally care.

I glance out the window again, at the guys still leaning against Damien’s car. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the pavement. The way they’re all staring at us, at her, makes me feel like I’m safe and protected under their watchful eyes. And then my gaze lands on Vincent. He’s standing tall, a smirk tugging at his lips, and he winks at me again. The heat floods my cheeks, a rush of warmth I wasn’t expecting, but it’s familiar.

"OK," my mother interrupts, still looking at me with that gleam in her eye, like she’s forgotten everything that just passed between us. "Tell me, which one is your boyfriend? The way they all look at you, you'd think they each have a claim over you."

The question throws me off. I laugh, the sound escaping a little more hysterically than I intended. I can’t help it, though—there’s something so absurd about her even thinking she has the right to ask. "All of them?" I say, trying to deflect. "Maybe they just like the view."

Her eyebrows shoot up, her lips twisting into a sly grin. "Is that so? Well, you’ve certainly got a good problem on your hands then, haven’t you?"

I can’t help but smile at the thought. All of them owning me, caring for me—sounds like the best day of my life. But I’m not ready to say that out loud. Not yet. I can’t even begin to explain how complicated everything is. How Vincent being my fiancé,now, changes everything. I don’t know what Damien or Cast will think about it, and I’m terrified they might hate me for it.

Her face softens, but she doesn’t seem ashamed. "Life’s complicated, Willow. You wouldn’t know, but?—"

"Complicated?" I cut her off, leaning forward now, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Complicated doesn’t explain abandoning your family! It doesn’t explain the years of silence!”

My mother’s eyes flicker, and for a moment, I see something break in her. She hesitates, her fingers stopping their restless tapping on the table. The softness in her gaze catches me off guard, and for the briefest second, I wonder if she’s about to explain, to finally open up the way I’ve always needed her to.

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