Page 4 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

Her eyes widen, but I don’t wait for the response. I grab my coat and stalk out of the room, my pulse pounding with a feeling far uglier than frustration.

My mind spirals the second I hit the elevator. I swipe my tongue over my teeth, jaw clenching as images of Willow flood me again. Willow in my arms. Willow beneath me. Willow fucking me. Willow being fucking done, and I know exactly who to blame.

Vincent.

The bastard took her from me. Pulled her out of my world and dropped her into his, like he had any right. Like she wasn’t mine as much as she was his. My fists curl at my sides as I step into the lobby, the ache in my chest twisting into a raw, violent heat.

I need a drink. I need a fight. I need Willow back in my fucking bed.

And Vincent? He needs to start watching his back, because the next time I see him, I am going to beat him into a bloody pulp for stealing my girl. He’s lucky I love Willow as much as I do, because if it wasn’t for her, he would be dead already.

I step out into the cold night, the winter air biting at every inch of exposed skin. The chill cuts through the remnants of heat clinging to my body, but I swallow the shiver threatening to crawl up my spine. I don’t fucking feel it. I won’t let myself.

My town car is already waiting at the curb, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the street lights. My chauffeur stands at attention, holding the door open, his expression neutral. I don’t acknowledge him, don’t need to. My mind is held hostage—stuck in the past, tangled up in black curls streaked with pink, in hazel eyes that once softened when they looked at me.

I slide into the backseat, the scent of leather and expensive cologne filling my nose. The door shuts with a quiet click, sealing me in. The city hums beyond the tinted windows, blurred neon lights casting fleeting colors across my face.

I drag a hand down my jaw, exhaling sharply.

Willow’s in my head, under my skin, burned into every fucking synapse. No matter how many drinks I down, no matter how many women I fuck, she’s always there, lingering like a ghost I can’t exorcise.

I let my head fall back against the seat, fingers flexing against my thigh.

Before her, I had control. Before her, I had an outlet. I used to spend my nights fighting, letting my fists do thetalking, letting the pain strip away everything but the raw, primal instinct to survive. But now? Now, I’m drowning in a different kind of torment. One I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try.

The car pulls away from the curb, gliding through the city streets. “Jamil,” I call out.

“Yes, Jefe?” He responds instinctively.

“Take me to the ring.”

“Are you sure, Jefe?” His voice wavers, and I can see his eyebrows furrow as he glances at me through the rearview mirror.

The muscle in my jaw jumps as I grind my teeth.

“I said take me to the ring,” I repeat, my voice low, sharp enough to slice through the air between us.

Jamil doesn’t question me again. He nods once and presses down on the gas, the city blurring past us in streaks of neon and streetlight glow.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, but it does nothing to settle the storm raging inside me. The scent of leather and expensive whiskey lingers in the car, but my mind is full of something sweeter—vanilla, paint, and that faint trace of sweat she always carried after she spent hours in the studio.

Willow smelled like fucking temptation. Like home.

And now? Now all I can smell is my own fucking misery.

I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers twitching for something to break, to ruin, to destroy. I used to have an outlet. Before her, I had a purpose, even if that purpose was just surviving the night. I spent my nights in the ring, throwingpunches, taking hits, letting the pain cleanse me in ways nothing else could. The cartel gave me something to fight for, but the ring? That was for me. That was where I became untouchable.

Before Willow, the pain was a necessity.

I close my eyes, pressing my head back against the leather seat. She’s everywhere. In the cracks of my mind, in the spaces between my ribs. I swear I can still smell her—vanilla and that same sweetness that always made me bury my face in her neck just to breathe her in.

Vincent took her. Stole her right from under me. And what did I do? Let him. Because she fucking let him. She left. Chose him.

My fingers flex, nails biting into my palms.

The driver pulls up to the warehouse, and I open my eyes, shaking off the ghost of her touch, her laughter, her everything.

The neon lights flicker above the entrance.

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