Page 81 of Lords of Ruin: Cherished

“It’s my body,” I say, my voice raw, but certain. “And I’m keeping the baby.End of discussion.”

Vincent curses under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before turning away. Cast exhales harshly and doesn’t say anything.

Damien moves closer, pressing his forehead against mine, his fingers brushing my cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “No matterwhat.”

Dr. Patel nods, her expression calmly reassuring. “I’ll do my best to get you a heart,” she says simply, before turning on her heel and walking out of the room, leaving behind a tension so thick it’s suffocating.

The second the door clicks shut, Vincent exhales sharply, running both hands through his hair before letting out a bitter laugh. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, pacing to the other side of the room. “You’re really gonna put yourself through this? Witheverythingelse going on?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, my fingers still curled protectively over my stomach. My heart—my failing, broken heart—beats unevenly in my chest, but I don’t waver. “This baby ismine.I’m not giving up on them.”

Cast shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “And what if your body gives up onyoufirst?” He finally turns to look at me, and there’s something raw,painedin his expression. “Willow, do you have any idea how close we came to losing you? And now you want to put yourself through nine months of strain when your heart is barely workingnow?”

“I know it’s dangerous,” I say softly. “I know the risks. But I alsoknowI want this baby.” My throat tightens, and I shake my head. “I refuse to believe I was brought back just to lose them.”

Vincent’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Goddammit, Willow.” He stalks back toward the bed, lowering his voice. “What happens if we losebothof you? You ever think aboutthat?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

Damien, still standing by my bedside, reaches for my hand, hisgrip warm, steady. “Then we make sure that doesn’t happen,” he says simply, like it’s that easy.

“W-what does that mean?” I stutter, moving closer to Damien.

He leans his lips brushing against the crown of my head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Trouble. Let us handle it.”

25

VINCENT

The boys have been searching for a heart for Willow for twenty-eight hours straight, no sleep or food, just pure adrenaline as they hunt down organ donors, hoping they could be a donor for Willow. I don't have the stomach for such deeds.

I check my watch again, drumming my fingers against the polished mahogany table. Mr. Blackwell shuffles his papers, clearing his throat for what feels like the hundredth time. My father didn’t have a funeral, because there wasn’t a body to bury. Damien’s guys handled it, and after some evidence of his death in a fire outside of the city, Angie didn’t even hold a memorial before asking for the reading of the will.

"What are we waiting for?" I finally snap, the tension of the last day making my patience non-existent.

Angie, seated beside me, crosses her legs and tosses her platinum blonde hair over one shoulder. "Seriously. Some of us have actual businesses to run." Her diamond bracelet catches the light as she gestures impatiently.

Mr. Blackwell adjusts his glasses, looking uncomfortable. “We are waiting for one more individual who must be present during the reading of the will.”

“And who will that be?” Angie snarls, her ruby red nails drilling into the desk in front of us.

The double doors at the far end of the room swing open, and every head turns. A woman glides in, her movements graceful despite the severity of her attire. She's dressed in a fitted black suit, her shoulder-length black hair framing a face partially obscured by a delicate black veil. Her lips are painted a striking crimson, visible even through the mesh.

My heart stops. The room tilts.

Those lips. That posture. The way her right hand unconsciously brushes against her collarbone as she surveys the room.

"I apologize for my tardiness," she says, her voice soft yet commanding. "Traffic was abysmal."

I rise from my chair without realizing I'm doing it. My throat constricts, making it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

"Mother?" The word escapes as barely a whisper.

Her eyes find mine through the veil, and a small smile plays at those red lips. "Hello, Vincent. You've grown into a handsome young man."

Angie looks between us, confusion giving way to outrage. "What is this? Some kind of sick joke?"

Mr. Blackwell clears his throat again. "Mrs. Eleanor Beaumont is indeed listed as your father's legal spouse. There was never a divorce filed, only... arrangementsmade."

---