Page 62 of Lords Of Ruin: Christmas

Cast stares at me like I’ve just spoken another language. “That’s why you had to fly to Austin and miss Damien’s game?”

“Yeah, but I?—”

“Jesucristo, Vincent,” he cuts in, stepping forward. His voice cracks on the name. “¿Me estás jodiendo?”

I drag a hand over my face. “I was going to tell you?—”

“When?!” Cast shouts. “When she was dead? When we were standing over another body you could’ve prevented?”

“Lower your voice,” I hiss, glancing toward the living room. Willow’s still asleep—or pretending to be—but I can’t risk waking her.

Cast doesn’t lower it. He points at me, shaking. “You had this hanging over you forweeks, and you didn’t say a word? Ni una palabra?”

“I thought I could fix it!”

“Claro que sí,” he spits. “Because Vincent Beaumont can fix the world, right? El salvador de todos.”

“Stop it.”

“No, you stop it,” he snaps, stepping closer until we’re almost chest to chest. “You think you’re the only one who bleeds when things fall apart? You think the rest of us don’t carry it too?”

My pulse spikes. “You don’t get it?—”

“¡No, tú no entiendes!” His voice breaks through the quiet like glass. “You don’t get to play martyr when it’s her life on the line.”

The words hit harder than they should. I look toward the doorway again. The faint outline of her form under the blanket is visible in the low light. My throat burns.

“I thought,” I start, but my voice breaks. “I thought if I could just get ahead of it?—”

Cast laughs, bitter and low, the sound like a blade dragged against concrete. “Get ahead of it? Youhidit.”

“Because it’s my mess!” I shout, stepping into him. “Because I’m the one who took the goddamn company! I’m the one who thought I could fix it?—”

“Right,” he cuts in, nodding, jaw tight with fury. “You didn’t think. And she almost died.”

The words hit like a punch. My throat burns; I look away, fists curling. “Don’t say that.”

“¿Por qué no?” he snaps, stepping closer. “It’sfucking true, Vincent.”

“Watch your mouth,” I warn, but my voice shakes with something half grief, half rage.

Cast doesn’t back down. He takes another step forward, so close I can smell the faint trace of his cologne and gun oil, the same mix he’s worn since we were kids. His eyes glint hard in the dim light. “You want me to say it softer? Fine.Casi la matas, hermano.You almost got her killed.”

I shove him back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to break the distance. “Don’t put that on me.”

He stumbles, steadies, then shoves me right back, harder. “Why? It’s fucking true.”

“Lower your voice! You’ll wake the kids,” I snarl.

“Why? You don’t want them to know what type of man their Daddy is?” I lunge for him, ready to grab his collar, but before my hands can reach, Willow’s frail body moves between us, trembling but firm.

“Stop!” Her voice cracks the air. “Please.”

We both freeze. The sight of her standing there—barefoot, pale, bandaged wrist shaking—hits harder than any shove.

“Willow,” I start, breathless, guilt already clawing at my throat.

Cast shakes his head, anger cracking at the edges. “He almost got you killed, Willow. You want me to just stand here and?—”