Page 3 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

“Damien.” Monroe’s voice cuts through the fog, sharper now. I barely register the weight of his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. “You’re not good, man. Sit the fuck down.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but even I can hear the sluggishness in my voice.

The medic shakes his head. “No, you’re not. Look at me.” He holds up two fingers. “How many?”

I blink.Fuck.I know the answer, but my vision is double, shifting, the two fingers blending into four.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Monroe curses under his breath, shoving a hand through his helmet hair. “That hit was dirty as hell,” he mutters before turning to the medic. “What’s the call?”

The medic doesn’t hesitate. “He’s done.”

The words slam into me harder than the hit itself. My body tenses on instinct, frustration burning through the haze. “No. I can finish.”

Monroe kneels in front of me, his jaw tight, his usual cocky smirk nowhere in sight. “D, you can barelystand. You’re not finishing shit.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the next wave of dizziness crashes into me like a slap to the skull. I sway, and Monroe grabs my jersey, steadying me. That’s it. Decision made.

“Get the stretcher,” the medic calls over his shoulder.

“No,” I grit out. “I don’t need a fucking stretcher.” But when I try to get up on my own, my legs buckle, and Monroe and Nash are both there, holding me up before I hit the ice again.

The last thing I remember is the glare of the arena lights burning into my skull, the sound of my own breathing coming in uneven bursts. Someone’s still talking—Monroe, maybe Nash—but their voices are distant, like they’re coming through a tunnel.

Then everything tilts.

2

CAST

Black curls fan across my lap in a dark mess, and her lips encase my dick in warmth, but I can’t get into it. The girl beneath me looks like Willow—well, if you squint your left eye and down six shots of whiskey like I did moments before pointing to her and telling my new assistant, Justin, that I wanted her.

I close my eyes and set my rhythm. Despite the girl on her knees for me, my mind conjures up different curls—inky black with pink highlights. Smooth, tanned skin. Hazel eyes that used to look at me like I held the world in the palm of my hand. The ache in my cock builds, tension coiling tighter with every thrust. She inhales sharply, her eyes watering, and fuck, I want the hazel eyes that had me blue-balled for the past three months.

She squirms, twisting in an attempt to get away, sucking in a much-needed breath, but I'm relentless, slamming hard and deep down her throat. This woman has my dick in her mouth and my balls in her hand, and yet all I can think about are thedimples in Willow’s cheeks, the way her face shattered when I told her we were done.

I am seriously fucked up. I love women. I used to cycle through at least three a week. A girl with curly hair and a talent for dislocating her jaw should’ve had me busting in fifteen minutes flat. But now? Now, I’m so backed up I can barely function. This is worse than when Willow ran off to art school. Back then, at least I knew where she was. I had cameras in her apartment, watched her prance around naked or in those cute little lingerie sets she always wore under her sweats.

And now? Now she’s back, back in my city, back in my orbit—but not back with me. Not yet, anyway.

The girl between my legs makes a garbled sound of protest, dragging me out of my thoughts. Annoyance flickers in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. My fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back so she has no choice but to look at me.

“Use your hands,” I order, my voice rough, void of warmth. She blinks up at me, mascara smudging, lips swollen and slick. Her tongue darts out to wet them, and for a second, I try—try—to pretend it is Willow’s mouth wrapped around me, Willow’s spit dripping down my cock, Willow’s voice moaning my name.

But it isn’t. It never is. Disgust churns in my gut. I push her off, my dick still hard, still aching, and stand up, grabbing the nearest towel to wipe myself off. She coughs, catching her breath, looking at me in confusion and irritation.

“You’re done,” I mutter, already reaching for my pants.

“Are you serious?” she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

I don’t answer. Don’t need to. I fish out my wallet and toss a few hundreds onto the table beside her.

“I’m not a fucking prostitute.” She squeals, wiping her forearm across her swollen lips.

“Don’t I fucking know it,” I snap, adjusting myself in my pants. Fuck, Willow, what have you done to me?

I glance at her again, debating if I care enough to make her leave or just walk out myself. But the irritation gnaws at me, the fact that she’s still here, still looking at me like I owe her. I pull out my phone, flick to the timer, and set it to three minutes.

“You have until that runs out to get out of my hotel room,” I say, voice cold, emotionless. "After that, Justin will handle you, and trust me, you don’t want him handling you."

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