Page 18 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

“No, no, don't cry, angel. We’re here together.” I whisper.

“You’re—” Her voice catches, shaking too hard for her to finish. She blinks rapidly, licking her lips. “You’renotdead, Damien.”

The words settle in slowly, heavy and disorienting. If this isn’t heaven, then that means?—

My eyes drift, my vision hazy, the soft glow of fluorescent lights burning into my skull. The steady beep of a monitor echoes in my ears, each pulse aligning with the dull ache radiating through my body. My throat is dry, raw, like I swallowed glass, but it’s nothing compared to the weight pressing down on my chest.

I blink sluggishly, forcing my focus back to Willow. She’s holding my wrist so tightly I can feel the faint tremor in her grip, her fingers ice cold against my skin. Tears spill freely from her hazel eyes, carving weak paths down her too-pale cheeks, her breath hitching like she’s trying to hold herself together and failing miserably.

Not dead.

Not in heaven.

I inhale slowly, my ribs protesting the movement. “Then where—” My voice is hoarse, barely there. I swallow, trying again. “What happened?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, pressing my hand tighter against her face before lowering it to her lap, squeezing it between both of hers. “You took a bad hit,” she murmurs. “On the ice. You… you hit your head, got a concussion and you fell unconscious on your way here.” Her voice wavers, but she forces herself to continue. “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks.”

I try to sit up, but the moment I shift, a white-hot pain lances through my skull, making me groan. Willow is on me instantly, pressing a shaking hand to my shoulder, urging me back down. “Don’t,” she pleads. “Please, just… stay still.”

I exhale sharply, my pulse pounding. “A coma.” The words taste foreign, unreal. “And you—you’ve been here?”

Her lips part, her face crumpling slightly before she nods. “Every day.”

My chest tightens, a thick and unspoken lump lodged in my throat. “Angel…”

Her grip on me tightens, her eyes swimming with too many emotions for me to name. “I thought I lost you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, her confession bleeding between us, raw and unguarded. “I thought you were gone, Damien.”

For a second—a single, fleeting second—my lips twitch up in a smile.Willow stayed here for me.

But then it hits me.

The last time I saw Willow, she wasn’t mine. She was wearinghisring, standing besidehim,choosinghim.

I wet my lips, a sharp and ugly thing curling inside me. “That’s sweet, Trouble,” I murmur, my voice rough, edged withbitterness. “But shouldn’t you be taking care of yourhusband?”

Willow flinches, her breath catching, and I watch the way her fingers tighten around the sheets like she’s trying to keep herself from breaking apart. She doesn’t answer immediately—probably because thereisno answer, nothing she can say that won’t sound like bullshit.

“Wow, Damien. Even with a concussion, you don’t miss a chance to be a bitter little bitch.”

My entire body tenses as Vincent steps through the doorway, looking as infuriatingly put-together as ever, dressed in a sleek black coat like he just walked out of a goddamnForbesphotoshoot. His smirk is lazy, but his eyes are sharp, watching me like he’swaitingfor me to snap.

And fuck—he doesn’t have to wait long.

My hands curl into fists against the sheets, rage simmering hot beneath my skin. “What the fuck areyoudoing here?” I growl, my voice low and venomous.

Vincent tilts his head, all easy arrogance. “Checking on mybrother,obviously.” His smirk widens, his tone dripping with amusement. “Or did you think Willow was the only one who gave a shit?”

I see red. Becausefuck him.

Fuck him for standing there like he belongs in this room. Like he hasn’ttaken everything from me.

Like I don’t want to rip his smug fucking face off.

“She’s the only one I want to give a shit,” I growl, and then curse myself internally because why the fuck would I admit that.

“Well, fuck me then,” Cast’s voice cuts through the tension as he slings into the room, taking the seat next to Willow. His curls are messy, his shirt slightly rumpled over his gray sweatpants, and if the pain of my body wasn’t getting to me I would gawk because I have never seen Juan “Cast” Castillo in fucking sweatpants.

Vincent rolls his eyes. “Glad you finally caught up, Cast.”

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