Lords Of Ruin: Christmas (Ruthless Kings Of Thornhaven #9)

Chapter 1 Willow

WILLOW

“Come on, baby,” I whisper under my breath, fingers tight around my cup of hot chocolate.

Cast sits beside me in his tailored wool coat, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his watch.

Calm, collected, infuriatingly unbothered, even as Damien fights for control of the puck.

He leans forward slightly, eyes tracking every move.

He’s not here for hockey—he’s here to help me pick up the pieces if Damien doesn’t win the championship for the third year in a row, though, we both have hope this time.

He even took time off from running the Cartel during the holidays to fully be here, trading meetings and mayhem for family and the rink.

Two rows down, our section is alive.

Penny, seven years and full of sugar and sunshine, has her black curly hair just like Cast, twisted into two messy braids, with tiny Stars flags clutched in each mittened hand.

She’s bouncing on the edge of her seat, chanting “Go, Stars, go!” in a voice that’s somehow louder than the adults behind us.

Beside her, Rose—eight, serious and dramatic, an exact miniature version of Cast—keeps trying to orchestrate the cheering, telling everyone when to clap and when to stop.

“Timing is everything!” she yells, as if the game depends on her.

Next to them, Theodore—also eight, all long limbs and a jokester-like personality, similar to Vincent—tries to explain the rules to Elise, four and endlessly curious with a scowl on her face just like Damien, her blonde curls escaping her pink hat.

“See, it’s called icing when the puck crosses the line,” he says, gesturing with his hot chocolate like a mini coach.

Elise nods solemnly, then promptly forgets, licking the whipped cream from the rim of her cup instead.

The whole section vibrates with energy—stomping feet, thunderous clapping, and the rhythmic chant of “Go, Stars, go!” The crowd’s noise swells and crashes like a wave, drowning out thought, thick with adrenaline and hope.

I wish Vincent were here.

He’s our good-luck charm—the one who always sits at the aisle, chants the right things, draws circles at the base of my spine, distracting me until Damien scores. But he had to fly out this morning for a meeting in Austin, leaving a hole on the bench that even the noise can’t fill.

On the ice, Damien takes a hit that makes me flinch.

The sound of his body hitting the glass shudders straight through me.

He rebounds instantly, spins, and chases the puck down like a wolf under all that human skin.

My breath catches when he cuts across the center, skating backward, eyes sharp and feral.

Sweat and frost blur together on the boards.

The seconds bleed out—twenty… fifteen… ten. My body feels tight as a bowstring, every nerve pulled taut. Everything has been building to this moment: him, the puck, the impossible shimmer of light off the goal net.

He shoots.

The sound when it hits the net is thunder.

The crowd erupts—screams, horns, pounding feet, the deafening joy of victory. My hot chocolate flies from my hand, splattering across my gloves as I leap to my feet.

“YES!” I scream, voice breaking. “YES, DAMIEN!”

Elise who snuck next to me while I was distracted shrieks beside me, her little mittened hands covering her mouth, and still down next to the glass Rose jumps so high her scarf falls off.

Penny’s chanting his name in perfect rhythm with the crowd, and Theo’s waving his program in the air like a flag.

Cast’s hand lands on the small of my back to steady me, but even he’s smiling now—the rare, slow kind that softens every sharp edge of him.

“See,” he whispers in my hair. “Nothing to worry about.”

The scoreboard flashes STARS 4 – AVALANCHE 3.

Damien raises his stick overhead, helmet off, grin bright enough to outshine the ice.

Steam rises from him like smoke. He looks up into the stands, searching—finding me.

For a heartbeat, everything stops: the roar, the lights, the camera flashes.

His mouth moves around my name without sound, and the whole arena disappears. It’s just him and me.

When the horn fades and the team skates off, my legs feel weak. I sink back into the seat, grinning so hard my face aches.

Cast stands, brushing off his coat. “Come on,” he says smoothly. “We should get to the tunnel before the press floods it.”

The kids tumble after us, a blur of voices and scarves and wild energy. Penny’s still chanting, Theo’s bragging that he knew Daddy would win, and Elise wants to run down to the ice. I laugh, herding them toward the stairs.

At the tunnel, chaos reigns. Reporters shout questions, cameras flash, security weaves a barricade around the players. Cast shows our family badge like it’s a royal seal, and the staff parts instantly. That’s the thing about him—he doesn’t yell or demand. He simply exists, and people obey.

We stop at the edge of the restricted hallway. The kids are still bouncing, faces flushed with excitement.

“Can we go see Daddy now?” Penny pleads, clutching my sleeve.

Cast crouches down to her level, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Not yet, sweetheart. Daddy needs his special congratulations first.”

I shoot him a look over their heads. He smirks.

“Why don’t we go get in the car?” he adds, rising to his full height. “Let Mommy handle that part.”

Penny tilts her head, suspicious. “Like a trophy?”

Cast chuckles softly, reaching down to take her hand. “Exactly like a trophy.”

The kids squeal, thrilled by the idea, and rush toward the exit. Cast lingers just long enough to glance back at me, his green eyes glinting with knowing warmth. “Don’t take too long,” he says, and then, with that trademark smirk: “You’ll melt the ice.”

He winks before turning to shepherd the kids out, leaving me alone in the tunnel, heart pounding in my chest.

The muffled sounds of the post-game celebration echo beyond the door—the hiss of showers, the clatter of sticks, the rumble of deep voices thick with adrenaline and triumph. Laughter rolls through the corridor like thunder, and the air hums with sweat, soap, and ice.

I linger for a moment near the entrance, heart drumming, and when I step out, a few of the guys still lingering in the main locker room spot me.

“Hey, Willow!” one of them calls, lips quirked up as he peels off his pads.

“Looking good in green!” another hollers from across the benches, and a chorus of laughter follows, good-natured and too loud in the tiled space.

“Careful, boys,” a deeper voice chimes in, “captain’ll have your sticks for kindling if you keep that up.”

It’s Kelsey, one of Damien’s closest teammates—broad-shouldered, towel around his waist, red hair still dripping. He’s the kind of man who looks like the All-American boy next door. There’s a small cut blooming red along his cheekbone, and when he notices me watching, he grins, easy and disarming.

“Hell of a game, huh?” he says, slinging his gear into his locker. “Damien’s been skating like a man possessed since the holidays started. Guess you’re his secret weapon.”

“More like his caffeine,” I say, smiling despite myself. “He forgets to breathe if I’m not in the stands.”

Kelsey laughs, shaking his head. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. We need that shot if we’re gonna make the playoffs next year.”

“Noted,” I reply lightly, and he winks before ducking into the showers with a wave of steam trailing after him.

The rest of the team’s chatter fades behind me—half-teasing whistles, a few good-natured “night, Willow!” calls—and I wave them off with a small smile, cheeks warming as I clutch Damien’s spare jersey tighter against my chest.

It’s his home jersey—black, silver, and deep forest green, the fabric slick and cool under my fingers. His number sprawls across the back in white, bold and familiar. When I pull it from the locker, the faint scent of him drifts up—soap, leather, and that clean, metallic chill of the rink itself.

For a moment I just hold it, pressing it against my chest. Even with the new softness the pregnancies have given me—hips wider, stomach faintly rounded—it will hang loose, swallowing me whole, brushing the tops of my thighs like something that isn’t mine but always fits.

I breathe in the scent again until it burns, then slip it over my head. The fabric slides against my skin with a whisper.

My boots click softly against the tile as I make my way toward the private corridor—the one only the captain uses. The echoes of laughter and running water fade behind me, replaced by the low hum of the ventilation system and the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat.

The smell hits me first—the sharp tang of salt from sweat, the faint chemical bite of rubber, a trace of Irish Spring soap cutting through it, and underneath it all, that unmistakable ash-and-winter scent that clings to Damien no matter how many showers he takes.

It’s him in every season—clean, smoky, alive.

Before he can see me, I duck into the small alcove by the doorway and trade my outfit—black tennis skirt, green cropped jersey—for his home jersey.

The fabric is cool when it slides over my skin, whispering down my body until it catches at my thighs.

I leave on my over-the-knee boots, the ones he likes, the contrast of bare skin between leather and hem enough to make my pulse stutter.

When I step forward, the door swings open before I can knock.

Damien fills the frame—hair damp, chest bare, sweatpants hanging off of his hips and the gleam of victory still clinging to him like heat.

His gaze catches on me, lingers, and that slow, wolfish smile spreads across his face as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

“You changed fast,” he teases, voice low and hoarse.

“Well I thought a certain hockey star was in need of celebrating with his number one groupie,” I murmur, stepping closer.