Page 38 of Lords Of Ruin: Christmas

“My tummy.”

He grabs a towel, wiping her chin with trembling hands. “We’re gonna clean you up, okay?”

I fumble for the thermometer on the nightstand, slip it under her arm. The seconds stretch forever before it beeps: 103.8°F.

My stomach drops. “Damien—it’s one-oh-three point eight.”

He exhales through his nose, steady but clipped. “Alright. Wrap her up. I’ll get the car.”

By the time he’s gone, I’m stripping her out of the soiled pajamas, swapping them for clean ones. Her skin glows hot and damp; her curls cling to her temples. “I know, baby,” I whisper as she whimpers against my shoulder. “We’re going to the hospital. Daddy’s getting the car ready.”

“I don’t wanna go,” she breathes.

“I know. But we have to.”

Footsteps thunder down the hall—Cast’s voice, Vincent’s, Damien’s calm commands.

When I step out, Penny wrapped tight in her blanket, Cast is already outside the twins’ room, hair mussed, eyes sharp despite the hour. Vincent stands beside him, barefoot, face tense as he takes in Penny’s flushed cheeks and limp arms.

Vincent brushes her hair back. “Go. We’ll stay with the kids.”

“Thank you.” My voice barely holds.

Damien calls from downstairs, “Willow! Come on!”

I tighten my hold and follow, breathing in the heat of Penny’s skin. The night air bites as we step outside—snow falling in thin, cold threads. The car engine hums, headlights slicing through the haze.

Damien opens the back door. “Seatbelt over both of you. Keep her close.”

I slide in with Penny, rocking her gently. She’s limp, breath shallow, her skin slick with fever. “It’s okay, baby,” I murmur. “You’re okay.” I’m not sure if I’m saying it for her or for myself.

The tires crunch through snow as Damien drives. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw clenched tight.

“How’s she doing?” he asks.

“She keeps shaking.” I brush her cheek; her lashes flutter, lips parting without sound.

“We’ll be there soon.”

The snow thickens, blurring the streetlights. The tires skid once, catching again. My heart stutters.

“Slow down.”

“I’ve got it,” he says—steady, but strained.

Silence fills the car. The wipers drag, Penny’s small breaths the only sound between us. At a stoplight, red glow flickers across his face.

“She’s gonna be okay,” he says softly.

“I know.” The words taste fragile.

The hospital sign appears through the snow. Penny stirs weakly, whimpering.

“Damien—”

“I see it.”

Moments later, we pull into the emergency lane. Before he can reach me, I’m out, holding her tight.