Page 20 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

I give him a dry look. “Damien Sterling.”

“Date of birth?”

“December 23rd.”

“In a couple of weeks, happy early birthday.” He beams and I nod. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

I hesitate. The ice. The game. The hit. Then… nothing. A whole two weeks of nothing. My stomach tightens. “The game,” I say slowly. “The match against Chicago. I took a hit?—”

“—and got your ass laid out,” Cast supplies helpfully.

The doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glad to see your support system is sonurturing.”

I ignore them both, my gaze flicking back to Willow. “And then?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “And then you collapsed.”

Dr. Marshall claps his hands once, snapping my attention back to him. “Alright, I’ve got enough to work with for now. We’ll run some scans, monitor your responses over the next twenty-four hours, and see where we’re at.”

I nod stiffly, but my gaze drifts back to Willow. She’s still staring at me, her expression tangled in too many emotions to name.

The doctor catches the look and huffs. “Whateverthatconversation is, save it for later. Last thing I need is you sending your blood pressure through the roof five minutes into waking up.” He tucks the clipboard under his arm. “I’ll be back to check on you soon. In the meantime, no sudden movements, no stress, and forfuck’s sake, no fistfights in the hospital room.”

I hear Vincent snicker.

Dr. Marshall turns to Cast and Vincent. “That goes forbothof you.”

Vincent raises his hands in mock innocence. Cast just smirks.

“Great,” my doctor mutters. “I’ll have security on standby.”

With that, he strides out of the room, and my gaze flicks to Willow again.

She’s still gripping her sweater, her knuckles white.

I should leave it alone.I should.But my head is killing me, my patience is thin, and there’s too muchI don’t know.

So I ask again. “How do you know Dr. Marshall is the best?”

Her lips part, and when she finally speaks, her voice is quiet. “Because he’s been my doctor for the past eight weeks.”

My stomach drops. I shake my head slowly. “What…?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, like she’s trying to shove the truth back down. But then she looks at me—reallylooksat me—and I see it. The exhaustion. The unsteady breaths. The way she’s barely holding herself together.

“My heart,” she whispers. “It’s failing, Damien.”

“No,” I say, my voice barely above a breath. “No, you’re—” I stop, swallowing hard. “You’re supposed to be fine.”

She gives me a sad, watery smile. “I’m not.”

My heart is pounding too fast, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The panic is crawling up my throat, my mindrefusingto accept what she’s saying.

I shake my head again, harder this time. “You had a heart transplant.”

She nods. “I did.”

“My mother’s heart was supposed to be the fix.” I panic. “She stopped chemo foryou, Willow.”

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