Page 9 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

The room falls into silence. The beeping of the monitors feels louder now, filling the emptyspaces between us.

Dr. Marshall clears his throat. “I’ll have Lindsey adjust your meds to keep the dizziness under control. If anything feels off, you need to let us know immediately.”

“Right.” I turn my head toward the window again. The sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across the floor. He exhales sharply through his nose, and then he speaks again.

“Thereissomething else we can try.”

I turn my head slowly, watching him with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates for only a second before stepping closer. “There’s an experimental trial for a partial mechanical heart,” he explains. “It’s designed to work with the remaining function of a failing heart, essentially taking over the workload and keeping the patient stable until they can have a heart donor.”

I swallow, gripping the blanket a little tighter. “And you think I’d be a good candidate?”

Dr. Marshall nods. “Your case aligns perfectly with the study’s criteria. You’re young, otherwise healthy, and you have no secondary organ failure yet. The device could keep you alive while we wait for a full transplant—possibly even long enough that you wouldn’tneedone.”

I should feel hope, relief, maybe even joy. But all I feel is suspicion. “And what’s the catch?”

He sighs. “It’s still experimental. That means risks—potential complications, the chance your body might reject the device, long-term effects we don’t fully understand yet.” He folds his arms, his expression professional and determined. “But compared to the alternative…”

I wet my lips, my voice quieter when I ask, “What’s the success rate?”

“Early trials have been promising,” he says. “Patients have seen significant improvement in quality of life and survival time. If you’re accepted into the program, you’d be one of the first in this stage of clinical trials.”

One of the first. A test subject. I don’t know if that should scare me, but it doesn’t. Not really. If I can have one more hour with the guys I love then it would be worth it.

Dr. Marshall watches me carefully. “You don’t have to decide right now. But if you want a chance to fight this, Willow… this might be it.”

A sharp, piercingbeeperupts from Dr. Marshall’s pager.

His posture stiffens, professionalism clicking into place as he glances down at the device strapped to his waist. Before he even speaks, I hear it—the sudden shift in the air outside my room, the frantic footsteps, the clipped voices rising in urgency.

Something’s happening.

Dr. Marshall mutters a curse under his breath and pivots toward the door. But before he can step out, a nurse’s voice carries from the hallway, her words fast and urgent.

“Hockey player, age twenty-four. Sustained a concussion during practice. Passed out on the way here.”

Ahockey player.

My breath catches in my throat, my fingers going cold as my mind instantly jumps to one possibility.

It can’t be. Itcan’t.

Dr. Marshall’s entire demeanor shifts, his voice sharp and cutting as he snaps at someone just outside my room. “Aconcussedpatient lost consciousness in transit?Jesus Christ, do you know how dangerous that is? Who cleared him to—what’s his name?”

A male voice yells over the commotion. “His name is Damien. Damien Sterling.”

The world tilts.No.My heart lurches violently in my chest, as if trying to tear itself free from my ribs.

I know that name.Thatname.

Not just any hockey player.Not just any Damien.

My Damien.

I barely register the way my breath stutters, how my fingers curl so tightly into the blanket that my knuckles turn white. The room is suddenly too small, too suffocating, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I don’t think—I just move.

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