Lords of Ruin: Cherished (Ruthless Kings Of Thornhaven #4)

1. Damien

1

DAMIEN

T he crowd screams, echo upon echo of “ Dallas Jags, Dallas Jags” as they stomp their feet in anticipation. The team and I sit under the tunnel listening to the intense screams and endless ruckus. Everyone’s lips twitches up in excitement or adrenaline, besides mine which were firmly in a straight line.

“Come on goalie,” a young kid named Julius and the fastest winger on the team, says as he slings his arms over my shoulders with a lazy smile. “Lighten up—it’s your last season and then you can get rid of us.”

I shrug Julius off, adjusting the strap of my glove as I stare straight ahead. “I’m plenty light.”

He snorts. “Yeah, about as light as a cement block.”

The others chuckle, and I hear someone—probably Nash—mutter something about me being a robot. Doesn’t bother me. I’ve heard it all before. Ever since Willow got married, my focus has been razor-sharp, every distraction cleared from my mind. It’s just me, the ice, and the puck. The way it should be .

“He’s only trying to get in the zone, Julius.” Hayden remarks. He’s the biggest defense man on the team, and the only guy who could probably give me a run for my money in an arm wrestling match. “You know our goalie— silent yet a tortured beast on the ice.”

“Don’t make me sound like I cry in my free time.” I grumble, pushing away Julius’s hands before he can pinch my cheeks.

“But don’t you? Please tell me you do. I have a Jackson betting you’re a softie.” Julius teases, his brown eyes widening as he play begs and I squat down in a wall sit, ignoring him and stretching my groin.

“In my free time I steal ice cream from babies.” I mock, knowing all about their bet.

“You owe me twenty dollars, Julius!” Nash chuckles, and Julius smacks his forehead in annoyance.

“Look at me, I try to give a guy a heart and I end up broke.” Julius pouts just as Nash wraps his arm around his shoulders and noogies him.

“Hey,” the team captain, Monroe, calls out, silencing the chatter. His gaze settles on me with a knowing smirk. “Happy goalie, winning team.”

A few groans sound, but the guys back off, giving me space as the tunnel lights flicker, signaling us to move. I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly. I don’t need to be happy to win. I just need to stop every goddamn puck that comes my way.

Hayden, Nash, and Monroe remind me of Cast, Vincent, and I, or how we used to be before everything went to shit. Like us, they have been inseparable since high school. They joke around, push each other’s buttons, and fight like brothers, but on the ice, they move as a unit—seamless, instinctive. The way Cast, Vincent, and I used to. Before life got messy. Before choices were made that couldn't be undone.

I used to think nothing could break us. We were untouchable, three parts of a whole, always in sync. We had plans—big ones. Cast would take over his family’s empire, Vincent would build a legacy that stretched beyond the confines of his family, and me? I’d just play. That was all I ever wanted. No power, no business, no responsibilities outside of stopping the puck.

But things don’t stay simple forever. Everything changed the minute I wanted Willow. The minute we all wanted Willow

Now, Vincent has Willow. Cast is—hell, I don’t even know what Cast is anymore. And all I have is this. The game. The ice. The one place where nothing else matters, where I don’t have to think about what was or what could’ve been.

Monroe clears his throat, pulling me out of my head. The guys around me shift, standing taller as he steps forward, rolling his shoulders. The tunnel lights flicker again, casting sharp shadows over his face as he surveys the team with the kind of authority only he carries. He reminds me of Cast, a leader with shadows in his eyes like he’s hiding a part of him that is sinister.

"Alright, listen up," he starts, his voice steady, commanding. "New season, new start. What happened last year? Doesn’t matter. What people say about us? Doesn’t matter. The only thing that does is the game in front of us. And tonight? We set the tone.”

The guys nod, murmuring their agreement.

“We play hard, we play smart, and we play for each other. None of that selfish bullshit. No egos. No half-assed shifts.” His voice sharpens, and he points at Hayden and Nash. “That means keeping your damn tempers in check and not handing them an early power play.”

Hayden smirks, while Nash rolls his eyes but nods.

Monroe exhales through his nose and continues. “Defense, hold the line. Forwards, push the pace. And Damien—” His gaze snaps to me. “We know you’ll do your job. Just don’t forget we have your back too.”

The guys make a show of tapping my pads, Nash giving me a light shove. "Even if you are a grumpy bastard, we kinda need you.”

Julius chuckles. "Yeah, man. Try not to let the existential crisis get in the way of stopping pucks.”

I shake my head, exhaling slowly, letting their words roll off me. None of it matters once we step onto the ice. Once the game starts, I won’t be thinking about Willow, or Vincent, or Cast.

Just the puck. Just the net. Just the game.

Monroe claps his hands. “Alright, let’s go show them who the fuck we are.”

A chorus of shouts echoes around me, the tunnel filling with the sound of skates clanking against concrete as we move. The lights at the end of the tunnel burst open, blinding, and I step into the cold.

The roar of the crowd engulfs us. The energy is electric, buzzing through my veins. The only sound I care about, though, is the sharp slice of my skates against the ice. Everything else—Julius’s constant chirping, Monroe’s leadership speeches, the opposing team’s glares—fades into nothing .

Game time.

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, but I barely register it. My heartbeat slows, my breathing evens out. This is my zone. This is where nothing else exists but the puck and my net.

I skate to my crease, tapping both posts out of habit, centering myself. The cold air bites at my skin through my mask, but I welcome it. It keeps me sharp, keeps me grounded. Across the ice, their starting center, a cocky bastard named Remy Langston, grins at me like he already has my number. His gaze is smug, confident, as if he’s already picturing the puck hitting the back of my net. I don’t react. I don’t need to. Let him think whatever the hell he wants.

The ref drops the puck. The game explodes to life.

Julius wins the faceoff, sending the puck flying to Nash, who cuts through the ice with a speed that sends the opposing defense scrambling. Our wingers push forward, driving the play into their zone. Nash feeds it to Dominguez, who fires off a slapshot from the blue line, but their goalie deflects it, sending the puck rebounding into play. The crowd roars at the near-miss, but I barely acknowledge it. My eyes are locked on the ice, tracking every shift in momentum, every pass, every angle.

Possession flips. Their left winger snags the puck and barrels down the ice, moving like a bullet toward our zone. My defensemen close in on him, but he’s quick, weaving through them with practiced ease. The moment possession shifts, I’m already adjusting, reading their strategy before they fully commit to it.

Five minutes in, and they get their first real shot on goal. Langston. Of course .

He rockets down the ice, dekes past Monroe with a slick toe drag, and fires a wrister aimed for the top corner. The shot is fast—too fast for most goalies to react in time.

But I’m not most goalies.

I drop into position instantly, my glove snapping out on instinct—catching it clean. The puck slaps against the leather with a satisfying thud. No rebound. No second chances. Just a textbook save.

The crowd erupts, but I barely hear it. I flick the puck away, my eyes locked on Langston as he circles back, his smirk dimmed but not gone. He taps his stick against the ice and gives me a nod. “Not bad.”

The game grinds on, each minute sharper than the last. My teammates feed off the energy, their movements faster, more aggressive. Julius dangles through defenders like they’re traffic cones, Monroe commands the ice like a general, and Nash takes every opportunity to get under the other team’s skin. The game is brutal, fast-paced, but I stay in my zone, unshakable.

Langston tries again, this time with a one-timer from the slot, but I read it before he even commits. I drop low, deflecting the puck off my pad, sending it ricocheting toward the boards. The rebound is messy, and for a split second, chaos erupts in the crease—sticks jabbing, bodies colliding, everyone scrambling for possession.

I dive, covering the puck with my glove just as a solid force slams into my side.

Pain explodes through my ribs, sharp and jarring, knocking the wind clean out of me. My head snaps back, helmet rattling as I crash onto the ice. Noise blurs—whistles, shouting, the pounding of skates circling me—but my body feels disconnected, floating in the aftermath of the impact.

For a second, all I can do is stare at the arena lights above, blinking against the haze clouding my vision.

Then Monroe’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and urgent.

“MEDIC!”

I try to sit up, but my ribs protest with a brutal ache, and my limbs feel sluggish. Hands grip my jersey, steadying me as Monroe crouches down beside me, his face a mix of concern and irritation. “Stay down, man.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out, even though my body says otherwise.

“Yeah? ’Cause you look like you just got steamrolled by a freight train.” His jaw tenses as he glares toward the ref. “That was a late hit. Fucking dirty play.”

I don’t care about the hit. I just need to get back to the net.

The medic skates over, kneeling beside me, already asking questions I don’t have the patience to answer. My vision sharpens, the adrenaline fighting back the pain. Langston is watching from the other side of the ice, trying to look innocent.

I force myself upright, ignoring the way my ribs scream in protest. “I’m good.”

Monroe’s frown deepens. “Damien?—”

“I said I’m good.” I meet his gaze, unwavering.

My vision blurs for a split second as I push myself up, the ice tilting beneath me like I’m standing on a rocking boat. My stomach lurches. The roaring crowd distorts, their cheers warping into muffled noise, like I’m hearing them from underwater.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing a breath in through my nose, but it does nothing to stop the way the rink wavers around me. My ribs ache, but that’s not the problem. It’s my head. The way everything feels just a little off .

“Damien.” Monroe’s voice cuts through the fog, sharper now. I barely register the weight of his hands on my shoulders, steadying me. “You’re not good, man. Sit the fuck down.”

“I’m fine,” I say, but even I can hear the sluggishness in my voice.

The medic shakes his head. “No, you’re not. Look at me.” He holds up two fingers. “How many?”

I blink. Fuck. I know the answer, but my vision is double, shifting, the two fingers blending into four.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. Monroe curses under his breath, shoving a hand through his helmet hair. “That hit was dirty as hell,” he mutters before turning to the medic. “What’s the call?”

The medic doesn’t hesitate. “He’s done.”

The words slam into me harder than the hit itself. My body tenses on instinct, frustration burning through the haze. “No. I can finish.”

Monroe kneels in front of me, his jaw tight, his usual cocky smirk nowhere in sight. “D, you can barely stand . You’re not finishing shit.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the next wave of dizziness crashes into me like a slap to the skull. I sway, and Monroe grabs my jersey, steadying me. That’s it. Decision made .

“Get the stretcher,” the medic calls over his shoulder.

“No,” I grit out. “I don’t need a fucking stretcher.” But when I try to get up on my own, my legs buckle, and Monroe and Nash are both there, holding me up before I hit the ice again.

The last thing I remember is the glare of the arena lights burning into my skull, the sound of my own breathing coming in uneven bursts. Someone’s still talking—Monroe, maybe Nash—but their voices are distant, like they’re coming through a tunnel.

Then everything tilts.