Page 71 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

I don’t argue, because the steam feels soothing, and I know the water will be the perfect balm for my sore body—still tender from the waves of pleasure earlier. He sits in the oversize tub with his legs open, leaning back with drunken eyes.

I slowly lower my legs into the tub, the heat of the water making me sigh in relief. The warmth seeps into my muscles, easing the tension, but it also feels strangely intimate. With Cast so close, his presence fills the space between us like an invisible thread.

“Cast-” I start, but it falls into a moan as he runs his hands through my hair, followed by the squeeze of a shampoo bottle that smells like vanilla and flowers.

“Cariña, how many times do I have to tell you,” Cast whispers in my ear. “I would doanythingfor you. We wouldbeanything for you. You don’t need to know the gory details.”

"I just want to know that you didn’t—" My voice falters, a knot forming in my throat.

"And if I did," he interrupts gently, his tone quiet but sharp, like the edge of a blade pressed against my skin. "Would it change anything, Willow?" He leans in, his lips grazing the curve of my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. "Would you not love me? Would you not love us?"

"I will always love you, Vincent and Damien," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Nothing could change that."

His lips linger on my shoulder for a heartbeat longer, and then his hand finds mine, fingers curling around it.

"Then let me let you live without knowing what loving you has cost," Cast murmurs, his voice low, almost a plea. “Let me carry that burden for both of us.”

“I can handle it, you know?”

He kisses my temple, “I know, but I don’t want you to right now.”

I rest my head back against him, closing my eyes, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself simply be.

21

WILLOW

Three Weeks Later

"You know, your father wore this jean jacket every single day when we first started dating," my Mother hums, holding up an acid jean jacket with neon green paint peppered along the sleeves and torso.

"No he didn't!" I giggle, crawling across the bed and grabbing the jacket out of her arms.

"He called it his lucky charm," she agrees, wiping the tears from her eyes as she nods in agreement. "He was wearing it the day he met me and then insisted that I only stayed for the jacket."

"Please tell me, you did not!" I say, the smell of mothballs and tobacco wafts off of the jacket.

My mother nods sheepishly as she pulls a pair of windbreaker pants out of the bag, smiling to herself.

"What can I say, it was the 80s!" Mom laughs, the sound warm but fragile. She runs her fingers over the windbreaker pants,tracing the neon stripes down the sides. "Your father thought he looked like a rock star in these. Remember how he'd wear them to your soccer games?"

"Oh god, how could I forget?" I groan, but I'm smiling too. "He'd cheer so loud the referee once threatened to kick him out."

"He was always your biggest fan, Willow."

I press the jean jacket to my chest, letting the familiar scent wash over me. Nine months since the funeral, and this is the first time we've been able to really go through his things. The house that had felt too empty, too quiet, now seems filled with his presence as we unpack boxes that had been hastily stored away.

"I never thought I'd be ready for this," I admit, watching Mom carefully fold a faded concert t-shirt. "Selling the house... going through his stuff..."

Mom pauses, looking around the bedroom. "I wasn't sure either. But it feels right now, doesn't it?"

I nod, surprised to find that the tears aren't coming. Instead, there's a gentle warmth spreading through my chest as I hold the ridiculous jacket that meant so much to him.

For the longest time, I avoided this—his closet, his old records, the dusty boxes filled with keepsakes from a life that ended too soon. It always felt like stepping too close to a wound that had barely begun to scab over. But today, with the warm hum of my mother's laughter filling the empty spaces of the house, I don't feel the ache quite as sharply.

We sift through the rest of the bag together. A worn leather wallet, still holding a crumpled receipt from our favorite diner. A mixtape labeledFor the Coolest Girl I Know—Mom's, ofcourse. A Polaroid of him, younger, wilder, grinning like he had the whole world at his feet.

I swallow the lump in my throat, holding up the picture so my mom can see. "He looks so happy."

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