Page 19 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

“I’m sorry did you hear something?” Cast asks me in a growling sound that tells Vincent to shut up or get punched in the face.

I give Cast a wide grin. “Nope nothing at all.”

“Real mature.” Vincent slumps into a chair at the far wall.

Cast sprawls back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, giving me a slow, assessing look. “You look like shit, hermano.”

I grit my teeth. “Thanks.”

“Must be nice, though,” Vincent muses, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Sleeping through all your problems instead of dealing with them like the rest of us.”

My grip on the sheets tightens. “Must be nicestealingeverything you’ve ever wanted instead of earning it.”

Vincent’s smirk sharpens. “Oh,I earned it,Damien. Don’t ever fucking doubt that.”

The door slams open.

“Jesus Christ,” a voice cuts through our bullshit, exasperated and sharp. “Didn’t I tell you all to call us the second he woke up?”

All four of us snap our heads toward the door, where a man ina crisp white coat stands, arms crossed, an unimpressed expression on his face.

“Dr. Marshall,” Willow says, straightening slightly, her voice softer than it was with either of us. “Sorry. I?—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts dryly, already stepping further into the room. “You gotdistractedplaying referee between these three grown toddlers?”

Cast huffs a laugh. Vincent just smirks. I glare, and of course my Willow giggles.

The doctor shakes his head, ignoring us as he moves to the bedside, flipping through a chart. “I’m Dr. Marshall,” he says, not even glancing up as he scribbles a note down. “You, Damien, are very lucky to still have a functioning brain after what you put it through.”

“Debatable,” Vincent mutters under his breath.

I shoot him a glare, but Willow is already speaking. “He’s the best in the business,” she tells me, and there’s reverence in the way she says it.

I narrow my eyes at her, my mind already picking apart that statement. “How wouldyouknow?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

Willow parts her lips like she’s about to answer, but before she can, Dr. Marshall snaps his fingers in front of my face again, sharp and impatient.

“Eyes on me, Sleeping Beauty,” he says flatly. “You can interrogate her later. Right now, we need to make sure your brain isn’t permanently scrambled.”

I gritmy teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what all the concussed patients say—right before they pass out and piss themselves.” He flips a page on his clipboard, completely unfazed. “So, tests for a concussedandcoma patient.”

Dr. Marshall steps closer, pulling a penlight from his pocket. “Follow the light with just your eyes,” he instructs, clicking it on and moving it from side to side.

I do as I’m told, but it takes more effort than I’d like to admit. My head feels thick, sluggish, like my brain islaggingbehind my movements.

Dr. Marshall hums, not giving anything away. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”

“No,” I lie. I feel seconds away from vomiting and my head feels like a merry go round but he doesn’t need to know that.

Willow makes a small, disapproving sound.

The doctor shoots her a look before turning back to me. “Headache?”

I shrug, which is aterribleidea because it sends a bolt of pain down my skull. I wince, and Dr. Marshall snorts. “That’s a yes.”

“Alright,” he says, flipping the page. “Memory check. What’s your full name?”

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