Page 35 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

"Willow..." he says, his voice soft.

I cut him off, shifting to get out of the bed. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Damien grabs my arm to steady me and I look at him surprised he’d even touch me. I don’t want to hear what Cast has to say, because I have been asking the same question: where is Vincent? And all his responses are clipped or uninformative as if he is talking to a child.

I don’t fight Damien when he walks me into the bathroom, nor when he keeps a steadying hand on my hip as I grip the sink. The room is dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the bulbs above the mirror. I meet his gaze through the reflection, searching his gaze for a hint— for anything other than the blank stare he gives me—but all I find is exhaustion. And maybe pity.

I let my gaze trace over him—the blonde buzz cut adorned with its latest design, a sharp contrast to the cold steel of his grey eyes. He’s handsome in that effortless, dangerous way, the kind that makes girls whisper and watch from afar but never get close enough to touch. His jaw is clenched, his expression blank but there’s a storm brewing beneath the surface. I wonder if it’s because of me.

He catches me staring through the mirror, and for a moment, neither of us move.

“Do you hate me again?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Damien’s fingers twitch against my waist before he lets go, leaving me colder than I was before. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through it.

“Did I ever stop?” he counters, his tone quiet, careful.

“Yes,” I whisper without hesitation. “I know you did, and you know you did, so stop acting like it is so easy to glare at me all the time. You told me you love me.”

“It is not easy to love you Willow.” He whispers, taking a step forward. “It feels like a branding iron down my throat. Like someone is trying to claw my heart out through my chest.”

I swallow hard, my fingers curling against the cool porcelain of the sink. His words shouldn’t affect me, but they do. They always do.

Damien doesn’t stop moving until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath ghosting over my temple. He looks at me like I’m something he doesn’t know how to hold, something that keeps slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he grips.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

I turn my head slightly, enough to see the way his jaw is clenched, the tightness in his throat like he’s swallowing down something sharp and jagged.

“What do you mean?”

His eyes flick to mine in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, I see it—his grief. Raw and unfiltered, barely held together by whatever force of will he hasleft.

“You don’t have her heart anymore.” His voice wavers, just enough that if I wasn’t listening so closely, I might miss it. “The last part of her that was still here… it’s gone.”

His mother. The heart she gave me, the one that kept me alive, that kept me tethered to him in ways neither of us ever said out loud.

My chest tightens, because I know exactly what he’s saying. Without it, I’m just me. Not a living reminder of what he lost. Not the girl carrying the last echoes of his mother’s heartbeat.

“Damien--”

“I love the girl my mother died for. I love the girl who’s almost died from my mother’s heart failing her. What type of person does that make me?”

“You can’t control who you love,” I whisper, finally turning to look up at him, a small smirk on my lips. “And some people would say it’s poetic.”

His breath catches, and I watch the war rage in his eyes. This close, I can see the way his pupils dilate, how his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for me but won’t let himself. Like touching me might burn, but not touching me is worse.

“Poetic,” he echoes, his voice rough, almost mocking. His fingers flex at his sides, knuckles going white. “That’s one word for it.”

I don’t move away. I should. I should put space between us, create distance before we both cross a line we can’t come back from. But I don’t. Because I want to know what happens if I stay.

His jaw clenches, his body vibrating with tension. "You think this is fucking poetic?" he grits out, his hand lifting, hoveringover my waist like he wants to grab me, pull me closer, but something inside him resists. "Because it feels like hell."

"Then stop fighting it," I whisper, tilting my chin up slightly, challenging him, daring him. "If it's hell either way, why not give in?"

His exhale is shaky, and for a second, I think he’s going to break. I think he’s going to grab me, kiss me like he’s been holding himself back from doing for so long. But he hesitates. His fingers finally land on my waist, just a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to send heat curling down my spine. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing the shape of me beneath his hands.

"You're dangerous," he murmurs, his thumb dragging the slightest fraction against my hip. "You always have been."

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