Lords of Ruin: Owned (Ruthless Kings Of Thorhaven #2)

1. Willow

1

WILLOW

“ Y ou are moving so fucking slow, Will!” Jasmine whines, kicking my bedroom door with the heel of her studded Doc Martens, the dull thud reverberating through the house.

She’s right; we’re late as hell, and we’re bound to earn a glaring red mark on our attendance record and a solid hour of after school detention if I don’t hurry up. But none of that matters when the Vincent Beaumont, self-proclaimed King of Thornhaven, thinks he has you at his beck and call. Which, technically, he does.

Well, he and the rest of the Chessmen: Juan “Cast” Castillo, the Rook and certified insane cartel heir, and Damien Sterling, the Knight and the guy who literally hates me with a passion.

So yeah, I am officially screwed—and not in the fun way.

At six o’clock this morning, he had the audacity to send me a box, complete with a personal note written in his own handwriting—no maids, no assistants, just Vincent's demanding words:

Willow,

Wear this. Meet us at my locker at 8 a.m. for inspection. Cast also wants your hair in curls.

Vincent

Succinct. Sharp. Absolutely unbearable—just like Vincent himself. When I opened my front door and saw the pink satin box, I nearly spit out my coffee on the poor courier standing there with it.

Thank God my Dad had already left for the construction site because if he’d been around to see this package, he’d have gone charging over to Vincent’s with his shotgun, talking about how Beaumont’s got another thing coming if he thinks he can tell me what to wear, and what type of boy thinks he can control his baby girl, whether he’s a billionaire or not.

Instead, I snatched the package from the courier’s hands and sprinted to my room, where I took a solid thirty minutes just working up the nerve to open it.

And when I finally put it on, damn—I looked so hot I screamed. Then I cursed Vincent's name to the heavens, and then I screamed again.

Inside the box: a fitted, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that was so soft it had to be cashmere, hugging my body like it was custom-tailored just for me. Paired with a blue denim mini skirt adorned with a delicate chain of gold links right along the hip, glinting just enough to make a statement.

On closer inspection, I noticed the Givenchy logo, snug on the button, plus a matching black belt that made the whole thing feel ten times more luxe than I have ever felt in my life. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Vincent had added knee-high, slouchy black leather cowboy boots to the mix with a heel that gave just the right lift.

Every piece fit me like a second skin. And even underneath it all, there was the white lingerie set, barely-there and somehow still tastefully sexy. Of course, that got me wondering how they knew my exact bra size, but that was a question for another day.

The look was undeniably sexy, chic and would totally make me stand out at school. I mean, I felt like a million bucks, but could I actually wear it? No.

I cringed at the idea of prancing around in an outfit handpicked by a boy, specifically picked out for me by a boy, but fucking Vincent Beaumont? No way would I give him the satisfaction.

I agreed to belong to the Chessmen for the next four months, whatever that meant, but that didn’t mean I was going to be their dress-up doll. Sure, I might tolerate a little humiliation, a flirtatious brush of their hand, or the bone-shattering orgasm they’d left me with last Saturday—but being their personal little Barbie doll? No. Never That is where I draw the line. I needed some autonomy, right?

Besides, this whole ‘Belonging to the Chessmen’ thing is complete bullshit. They could have just been good guys, and given me the hundred fifty thousand dollars because that amount is essentially Kleenex for Cast and Vincent.

Damien, though—he’s a little different. A hundred grand means something to him, so if I had to pay him back, I would. I mean, I already owe the guy my life; what’s a couple thousand dollars more?

So after trying it on, taking a few pics, because I had to immortalize how good I looked and pacing back and forth in my bedroom for twenty minutes.

I tossed on my favorite low-rise flare jeans, paired with a long sleeve gray baby tee that reads We the People Totally Agree in graffiti-style lettering across the chest. I slid on my signature black Converse, sliding the cream-colored note into my back pocket. My hair was still a mess of black and pink curls because, well, I was running late. But if I’d had the time? Trust me, I’d have straightened it into oblivion just to spite him.

“I am counting down from five, then I am leaving your ass here and you’re going to have to explain to your DILF how you missed school!” Jasmine yells, at the top of her lungs and I swear our next door neighbors could hear her, including her parents.

I swing open my bedroom door scowling. “You’re not supposed to use the key unless it’s an emergency.”

Jasmine rolls her eyes, stuffing a piece of my homemade corn muffin into her mouth before looking into my room at the mess of clothes and Vincent’s package. “Will, is that a package on your bed?”

I look back, my eyes wide, swipe my bookbag from off the floor and close my bedroom door. “None ya.”

I shake my head and slide from in front of her scowling face, then she huffs following me down the stairs. “What do you mean ‘none ya’? When did you start showing at Givenchy?”

If this were anything else, I’d spill to Jasmine in a heartbeat. We’ve been besties since diapers, after all. But how do you tell your oldest friend, “Oh, by the way, those guys at school who basically hate me? Yeah, I kinda sold myself to them. For one hundred fifty thousand dollars. For the next four months.”

It doesn’t exactly come up naturally in conversation without risking her screaming at me for being a total idiot. And believe me, right now, this feels like one of the dumbest moves of my life.

“It’s fake, a gift from Dad.” I roll my eyes, walking toward my kitchen.

“Your DILF getting scammed? So unlikely, spill!”

I grab my thermos full of coffee and a banana before turning to Jasmine who stares at me with narrow eyes. “One, what did I tell you about calling my dad a DILF?”

“Not to, but I told you if I ever fucked a man it would be your father, full stop.” Jasmine leans over me grabbing an apple to add to her theft of my homemade corn muffins. “And stop trying to escape the fact that you are not telling me something.”

I run my fingers across my lips and shrug, miming as if I am zipping my mouth closed and throwing away the key. I slide past her towards my front door, throwing a wink at her.

“Oh, this conversation is so not over.” Jasmine snaps, lurching forward to grab me, but I shimmy out of her grasp, and make my way to the front door.

She twists up her lips and places one hand on her hips. “You know, besties don’t keep secrets, especially not big ones,” she calls out, her voice sing-songing but laced with a warning. “And you know I’m like a bloodhound for drama.”

“Drama?” I laugh, trying to keep my tone light while fumbling to grab my bag and adjusting my grip on my thermos. “You’re being dramatic; there’s nothing to sniff out here, promise!”

Jasmine folds her arms, one brow arching high. “Oh, honey. I can smell the secrets from here. And when I find out, you’d better believe I’ll be saying ‘I told you so.’”

As I reach the door, I throw another wink back at Jasmine, who’s still smirking with that look that means she’s never dropping this. “Promise. You’re on a need to know basis, and right now, you don’t need to know.”

“Oh I need to know.” Jasmine snaps as I twist the doorknob and swing the door open—and my heart nearly stops.

She continues without missing a beat, her voice lowers almost to a whisper. “What the hell is Damien Sterling doing at your front door?”

Damien Sterling is standing right there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that could make a nun lose her religion. He’s in a dark button-up, open and half-untucked, with a white tank peeking out beneath it, jeans that look like they were practically stitched to him, and scuffed Timberlands. His buzz cut is its usual platinum blonde, but now there’s a tiny broken heart in red and black ink near his hairline.

As if I needed another way to embarrass myself in front of him, everything I’m holding slips out of my hands—a thermos, a banana, and my dignity all hit the ground.

Damien raises an eyebrow, a scowl twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I knew it.”

Jasmine, halfway through a mouthful of my corn muffin, pauses and narrows her eyes, flicking between Damien and me. “Wait. Hold on— what exactly did you know that I don’t know?”

I scramble to gather my things, trying to keep my cool, but my face feels like it’s on fire. “Nothing. He knows nothing. Damien’s just...here for no reason, right?” I glance up at him, hoping he’ll go along, but of course, he looks like he’s having the time of his life watching me squirm.

“Sure. No reason at all,” he says, crossing his arms, his smirk deepening. “Just a friendly neighborhood visit, checking in on my...investments.”

Jasmine’s face goes from curiosity to pure anger and her gaze snaps back to me. “Oh. Hell no. Tell me he did not just call you an investment?”

Jasmine goes to walk forward to get into Damien’s face because as scared as she is of the Chessmen, she loves me more and would totally punch Damien in the face, but I just stand back up and place a hand on her shoulder stopping her from committing social suicide.

“It’s a joke, Jas. Let me talk to Damien. I’ll meet you in the car.” I whisper.

Jasmine gives me a tight nod, her gaze never wavering from Damien as she takes a step back.

“Alright,” she mutters, crossing her arms as she sizes him up. “But don’t think for a second I’m out of the loop. And if he tries anything…” She lets the words hang, giving Damien a final, pointed glare before shifting her eyes back to me. “Text me the second you’re free. We’re talking about all of this.”

She shoots him one last warning look, then heads toward her car, glancing over her shoulder until she’s sure I’m alright.

The second she’s gone, I turn to Damien, narrowing my eyes. “Why are you here?”

Damien leans in closer, the scent of mint, apples and leather invades my nostrils making my stomach twist. I try to maintain my composure as Damien's storm gray eyes bore into mine. “I am here to make sure you didn’t steal our money and run off like the thief you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“I guess I owe Vincent a hundred dollars,” Damien sighs as his eyes slowly travel over my body, taking in every curve and angle as if calculating something. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “But he owes Cast a hundred.”

“What?” I snap, fixing the strap of my bookbag on my shoulder.

“I bet Vincent you would be gone by Monday, and Cast bet that you wouldn’t wear the clothes Vincent sent you.” He shrugs.

I bite my inner cheek; how dare he think I would take the money and run? I am not a coward. I am not a con artist, and Damien, despite his mother being as sweet as cherry pie, is a fucking asshole. “I’m a woman of my word, and if I said I would be yours, then I’ll be yours.”

A dark cloud runs across his gaze, and he licks his lips so slowly I could have timed the exact moment the tip of his tongue ran across his lip. “Say that again.”

“W-what?” I gasp, all the heat left my cheeks and before I can stop myself I take a tentative step back into my house.

“Say it, again.” He growls, one hand white-knuckle grabbing the door frame as the other holds the door open, stopping my escape back into my home.

“I’m yours.” I whisper, avoiding the hurricane swirl in his eyes, and looking down at the scuff on my Converses.

His breath feathers over my cheeks as he speaks, and a low rumble curves up his chest. “Then move your little smart ass up those stairs and put on the clothes we sent you.”

My skin feels like it’s on fire, and I don’t know if it’s his scent or the fear that brings on the headiness of my next decision, but I can feel my head nod, and hear myself say, “Okay,” without another thought of defiance running through my head. I call out to Jasmine that she can leave without me so she won’t be late for school, and she rolls her eyes and leaves.

Damien chuckles, curving a curl behind my ear. “Good girl, this may be fun after all.”