Page 8 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

“Lindsey-”

“He deserves to know that the love of his life is dying. Willow, he loves you like nothing I have ever seen before.” She shakes her head fondly. “I won’t lie to him. I can’t.”

I let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing my forehead with my thumb and pointer.

“The doctor will be here in a moment to check that heart of yours.” She nods.

“You mean the ticking time bomb in my chest,” I mutter.

“Funny,” she mocks before leaving me alone in my private corner room, courtesy of Vincent.

I stare at the closed door, my chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, trying to ignore the sharp sting behind my eyes.

Lindsey doesn’t get it. No one does.

Vincent has watched someone die before. I’ve seen myself almost dead. I’ve watched my body fail, watched myself shrink, and felt the coldness of my skin spread like a spider web across my body. I’ve watched the way death creeps in slowly at first, like a shadow waiting for its moment, and then all at once, stealing everything that made them who they were.

It’s agony. I won’t do that to Vincent. I won’t make him go through what he did with Rosemary again.

He’s too full of life, too big, too much, tooeverythingto be trapped in a room with me while I wither away. It would wreck him, break him open in ways I don’t have the right to do. And I love him too much—all of themtoo much—to let that happen.

I press my fingers to my temple, willing the ache behind my skull to fade, but it’s a losing battle. The exhaustion isn’t just physical. It’s in my bones, in my heart, in the slow drag of each breath.

The door opens again, and I brace myself before I even glance up.

Dr. Marshall strides in, flipping through my chart like the news of my impending death is just another note in a file. “Afternoon, Willow,” he greets, his voice clipped in that practiced, clinical way that doctors perfect.

I arch a brow. “Is it?”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite irritation—before he snaps the chart shut and meets my gaze. “How are you feeling?”

I huff a laugh. “Like my heart’s trying to kill me.”

He doesn’t humor the joke. “Any dizziness? Shortness of breath?”

“Both,” I admit, twisting the blanket between my fingers again. “But that’s normal now, isn’t it?”

He nods once. “You’re on a high-dose immunosuppression regimen to keep your body stable while we wait,” he explains. “It’s preventing further stress on your heart and reducing the risk of inflammatory complications, but it also means your immune system is significantly weakened.”

I shift my gaze to him, unimpressed. “So, what? I have to stay wrapped in bubble wrap until I die?”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “It means that even a minor infection could become fatal. Your body doesn’t have the strength to fight back.”

I already knew this, but hearing it out loud makes it feel heavier, more final. Like I’m not just waiting for my heart to fail—I’m waiting for anything,everythingto become the thing that takes me out first.

“You’re already experiencing increased fatigue, dizziness, and shortness of breath, which is in line with the progression we anticipated,” Dr. Marshall continues, ignoring the way I press my fingers to my temples like I can rub the reality of it all away. “We’ll be monitoring your organ function closely, but at this point, our priority is keeping you comfortable and preventing complications.”

“Comfortable,” I echo, letting the word settle on my tongue. “That’s just a polite way of saying you can’t do anything else.”

Dr. Marshall’s silence is answer enough.

I exhale slowly, my fingers twisting the blanket again. “And the transplant list?”

He hesitates, and I hate him for it. The pause, the hesitation—it’s worse than anything he could actually say.

“You know where you stand,” he says finally, not unkindly. “I won’t lie to you, Willow. The likelihood of you getting a heart in time is?—”

“Low,” I finish for him. “Yeah, I got that part.”

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