Page 78 of Lords of Ruin: Savage

“Willow,” he murmurs, softer this time, his breath warming the crown of my head. “You listen to me.” He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up, his calloused fingers gentle against my jaw. Hisdark eyes, usually sharp and cutting, soften as they search mine. “Cast loves you. Damien loves you. I love you.”

I let out a broken breath, my fingers still curled in his shirt. “Then why does it feel like they don’t love me? They left me so easily, Vincent. They didn’t even give me a chance to explain.” My voice shakes, the weight of the words pressing down on my chest. “I would have told them that I wanted them too. That I choose you all.”

His knuckles run along my jaw as he sighs. “I know, baby. I know.” He presses a kiss tightly to my forehead, pulling another sob out of me. “Let’s get you changed, baby.”

Vincent doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just bends down, one arm hooking under my knees, the other bracing my back as he lifts me a light wobble in his step. My arms wrap around his neck instinctively, and I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the clean, sharp scent of him—woodsy cologne and something unmistakably Vincent.

“You shouldn’t carry me. Your legs are not at a hundred percent.” I whisper into him as a light grunt leaves his lips and he shifts me in his arms.

“I’m fine, think of it as physical therapy.” He kisses my forehead slowly moving towards the stairs.

“Vincent-” I protest, but he shushes me with a glare.

“Let me do this, princess. I promise I can do this.” He whispers more to himself than me but I nod in agreement as he takes his first step up the stairs.

He carries me upstairs with slow, steady steps, stopping every time he trembles a little too much. The house is eerily quiet, justthe soft creak of the staircase beneath his feet and the sound of his ragged breathing.

When we reach his bedroom, something inside me twists. It’s changed since we were kids. The posters on the walls are gone, replaced with sleek, dark decor—rich leather, heavy wooden furniture, an expensive bed that looks like it’s never been slept in. It’s colder than I remember. More like a fortress than a home.

Vincent lowers me onto the bed, his touch lingering, like he’s reluctant to let go. He kneels in front of me, his fingers working at the damp hoodie clinging to my frame. “Arms up,” he murmurs, his voice gentle but firm.

I obey without thinking, lifting my arms so he can pull the hoodie over my head. The air hits my bare skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Vincent’s eyes darken as he takes me in—his gaze lingering a little too long on the way my body trembles. But he doesn’t say anything. Just reaches for the waistband of my leggings, his knuckles grazing my hips as he peels them down my legs.

When I’m left in nothing but my underwear, he stands, his jaw ticking. “Stay here.”

He disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the sound of running water. The scent of lavender and honey fills the air, warm and soothing, wrapping around me like a blanket.

When Vincent returns, he scoops me up again, carrying me into the bathroom where a deep, clawfoot tub is already filling with steaming water. He sets me on my feet, his hands lingering at my sides as if making sure I won’t collapse.

His fingers brush my chin, tilting my face up so I have to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything, Willow,” he murmurs. “Just let me take care of you.”

My throat tightens. I nod.

Vincent’s touch is slow, deliberate, as he reaches behind me, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. His knuckles skim my spine as he slides the straps down my arms, letting the fabric fall to the floor. His fingers trail down to the waistband of my panties, hesitating for just a second before slipping them down my legs.

He steps back, his gaze never leaving mine as he gestures to the bath. “Get in, baby.”

I do as he says, sinking into the warm water. The heat soaks into my skin, easing the tension in my muscles, but the ache in my chest remains. Vincent kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for a washcloth. He dips it into the water, then runs it over my arm, slow and gentle.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rich, soothing. “Let me take care of you. Worship you.”

“Worship?” I repeat like the word is foreign my mouth.

His hands move lower, cupping water and letting it cascade over my shoulders, washing away the suds. He grabs a fresh cloth, dipping it into the warm water before gliding it along my arms, down my chest, over the curve of my waist. There’s no rush, no urgency—just patience. Devotion.

“You don’t even see yourself, do you?” His voice drops to something just above a whisper, like he’s speaking a prayer. His lips ghost over my shoulder as his fingers continue their slow,tender worship. “The way you glow even when you cry. The way your body moves, like it was carved by the gods. You’redivine, Willow.”

A shiver rolls down my spine, and I turn my face toward him, searching his face for the punchline or lie, but I don't see one. He’s watching me with sincere, burning eyes, his fingers tracing patterns along my damp skin, learning me all over again.

“You’re a goddess,” he says, the words hushed but reverent. He drags his lips along the curve of my shoulder, pressing a lingering kiss there before moving lower, his mouth grazing my collarbone. “And a goddess should be worshiped.”

I gasp as he continues his slow, intoxicating descent, his mouth trailing along my arm, over the inside of my wrist. Each kiss is soft, deliberate, a silent promise.

“And that’s what I’m going to do,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you. Every scar, every curve, every place you’ve ever doubted you were enough. I’ll remind you.”

He takes his time, washing me, and kissing my clean flesh with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.

When he reaches for the shampoo, lathering the soap between his fingers, I swallow hard. “Don’t leave me.”

---