Page 10 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I ’VE BEEN OUT, or where they’ve taken me. Numbness still lingers in my legs from whatever drug they pumped into my system, and the ache in my neck pulses so deep I can’t even turn my head without wincing.

Fingers tap against my cheek—soft, rhythmic, persistent.

“Wake up, chica . Naptime’s over.”

The voice is smooth, slightly irritated, and has a Spanish accent I recognize too well. It’s the same one I heard right before I blacked out. The one that carried me out of my apartment like I weighed nothing.

I force my eyes open. Everything’s blurry at first, just shifting shadows and shapes, but he slowly sharpens into focus.

Light olive skin. Honey brown eyes that don’t flinch. A short beard, and wavy dark brown hair pulled into a loose half-bun. Two diamond studs in his left ear catch the overhead light, and there’s a thin black cross is tattooed beneath his eye.

Monroe Vargas ,

if my intel is right.

He’s one of Damon King’s guys. A bouncer at The Speakeasy, if I remember correctly. Though tonight, it seems his job description includes drugging and kidnapping.

I know he wasn’t one of the men who invaded my family’s home six months ago. He’s not the right build, and his eyes aren’t right. That certainty lives in my bones, burned in like a brand.

But that doesn’t mean I trust him .

The man has to be six-foot-four, built like a fortress. Every breath he takes seems to pull gravity toward him. He looks like he has to duck into every building he enters.

He’s not someone I’d ever let close voluntarily.

If I tried to fight him, I’d be lucky to make it three steps before he took me right back down again.

My throat feels like sandpaper. “Where am I?” I rasp.

I tug at the ropes cutting into my wrists and ankles—tight and expertly tied. No wiggle room. No weak knots. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

The room is small. Maybe ten-by-ten. Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling. Cold and damp, like a forgotten basement. There’s a single rusted drain beneath my chair and one metal door across the room.

Rooms like this don’t exist by accident.

This is where people go to disappear. Where questions get answered—and screams get swallowed whole.

I look back up at Monroe, but his face is unreadable. No amusement. No regret. Just that military-grade blankness that tells me he’s done this before.

“Could be your safe haven if you cooperate,” he says with a shrug. “Could be your hell if you don’t.”

I lurch forward in the chair on instinct, a sharp jolt of adrenaline pushing me an inch closer—but the ropes bite back hard, tearing into my skin. I hiss through my teeth as the sting flares in my wrists.

Monroe watches, lips twitching in something that almost resembles a smile. But it’s not the smile that angers me most.

It’s how calm he is. How bored he looks.

He turns away, casual as ever. “Sit tight, chica .”

The door clicks shut behind him, locking me in a silence that’s thick enough to choke on.

I yank at the ropes again, harder this time—but all it gets me are slow drops of blood sliding down my hands. The cuts aren’t deep, but they’re enough to remind me who’s in control here.

And it sure as hell isn’t me .

There’s no point wasting energy trying to get out of here. Only a handful of people could’ve traced me to that apartment. Even fewer would have the nerve to do it.

And considering the timing...

The door creaks open again. Slowly. Menacingly .

And suddenly the air changes.

It thickens. Warms. Wraps around me like a heavy wool blanket—comforting at first, but stifling the longer it lingers.

He doesn’t walk in.

He arrives.

Tall. Composed. Shadowlike.

His shoes gleam beneath the flickering fluorescent light—black leather, polished enough to catch my reflection if I weren’t too busy taking in the rest of him.

Dark slacks. Black button-up—the collar undone just enough to hint at his sun-kissed skin and dark ink beneath. Tattoos swirl across his forearms, billowing like smoke rising from the flames drawn across his knuckles.

He moves with a predator’s grace. Not loud or fast—but deliberate . Every step closer cranks the tension in the room tighter.

And I know—with immense certainty—this isn’t a man who came here to play games.

This is the man the Songbirds are afraid of.

The man I was sent to betray.

Damon King.

Even without the photos I’ve seen, I’d know it’s him.

Everything about him fits the stories—the sharp jawline, the piercing stare, the way he carries himself like the room already belongs to him.

Confidence bleeds from his posture. Not the flashy, try-hard kind—the dangerous, lived-in kind. The kind that says: I know what you’ve done, and

I’ve killed people for less .

His hair is dark, effortlessly neat on the sides and slightly mused at the top. Rogue strands cast shadows across his brow, and the light seems to avoid his eyes entirely .

They’re the darkest brown I’ve ever seen—so dark they might as well be black. If someone told me they were made of obsidian, I’d believe them.

And when he smirks, the gleam of his sharp canines is pearlescent white—like something predatory smiling at you before it bites down on your throat.

He carries a wooden stool in one hand and sets it down across from me with practiced ease, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull, final thud .

The silence that follows is complete.

No footsteps outside. No echo. Just the soundproof void, pressing in on my eardrums until I can hear my own blood pumping behind them.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He sits—casual and in control. His gaze rakes over me, taking in every detail—from the mess of my hair to the sleep-creased T-shirt I’d worn to bed, all the way down to my bare legs.

There’s no shame or suggestion in the way he looks.

Just calculation. Disassembly.

I shift in the chair, metal biting into the backs of my thighs. The coolness of it brushes places I’d rather it didn’t.

I squeeze my legs together.

All I wore to bed were those stupid lace panties…

He catches the motion, and his gaze lifts back to mine—now displaying a spark of interest. The corner of his mouth twitches—half amusement, half curiosity—and he clicks his tongue.

“I’d introduce myself,” he says, his voice as smooth as velvet, “but it seems you already know plenty about me.”

His tone doesn’t ask. It confirms.

A chill slides down my spine, but I grit my teeth and force my body to stay still—to give him nothing.

He leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees, eyes locked on mine.

“Tell me, Brianna…” My name drips from his lips like syrup over a blade—slow and sweet, but still sharp enough to cut .

I keep my face blank, but I feel the discomfort slide through me anyway.

I hate that he knows my real name. Hate that he says it like we’re already something more than enemies in a locked room. I worked so hard to disappear. Spent weeks scrubbing databases, forging trails, burning the digital fingerprints I left behind.

But not everything can be erased.

His eyes sharpen like he’s watching the thoughts behind my silence. “How does a pretty little thing like you end up in a business like this?”

My jaw locks. Hard. Bone grinding against bone.

The corner of his mouth curls—just slightly.

It’s the kind of smirk that says he sees everything. That he’s already logged my reaction and filed it under weakness .

“Not so nice when people know your secrets, hm?”

His voice is soft now. Mocking . Meant to coax and corrode.

He lifts a hand and places it under my chin. Just the pads of his fingers—light enough that I could pretend it’s gentle if I didn’t know better.

He tilts my head up, his eyes boring into mine.

The smirk is gone.

What’s left behind is something far colder.

Something focused. Lethal .

His hand falls away, and the temperature in the room seems to drop with it.

“Who are you working for?”

The question isn’t barked. It’s whispered. But it’s sharp enough to feel like a knife pressed between my ribs.

I don’t answer. I keep my eyes on him, my silence a scream of defiance.

Even if I knew exactly who sent me, I wouldn’t tell him.

Damon King is the kind of man who doesn’t forgive trespasses.

The kind who doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger when someone becomes a threat.

If I open my mouth now, there are only two outcomes: he kills me to protect whatever he’s hiding—or he lets me live long enough to regret it .

And if he doesn’t kill me… whoever I’ve been working with might. I was given three days. Three days to deliver intel on the King of Kings.

Time’s ticking .

And the only thing more dangerous than Damon King is the person who wants him taken down.

Damon rises from his stool like a storm cloud taking shape—slow and inevitable. His shadow stretches across the concrete, swallowing the space between us as he towers above me.

The weight of his presence fills the room, presses against my chest with every breath he takes.

His eyes narrow to slits. Bottomless. Unforgiving.

“If you won’t talk to me,” he murmurs, low and razor-edged, “I can send in someone else to get answers. And trust me... their approach will be much messier than mine.”

The threat hangs in the air, coiled and heavy.

I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn’t budge.

Fear creeps along my spine, but I smother before it can take hold. I bury it deep—in a dark place he, and no one else, will ever get close enough to see.

I won’t hand that to him. Not Damon King.

Men like him feed on fear, sharpen it into weapons—and I’ve already been carved up once.

Never again .

Then something shifts.

My mind sharpens through the fog of pain and pressure, and I remember—I know him.

I've seen Damon King’s digital skeletons. His bank records. His company’s encrypted files. I know the names of the people closest to him.

Monroe Vargas. Chavez Navarro. They’re not just bouncers—they’re fixtures, embedded in every layer of his empire.

And he has no idea how much I know.

I straighten in my chair, pain be damned, and force a slow smirk onto my lips. My eyes lock with his—sharp, calculating, unafraid .

Something flickers in his expression. A fracture in his control.

Maybe I’m the first person who’s ever looked him dead in the eye and refused to flinch.

“Do I get any guesses on who you’ll send in next?” My voice is low, laced with mockery. “My money’s on Chavez. Seems fair, since Monroe already carried me in here like a sack of potatoes.”

His eyes ignite.

Rage. Intrigue. A flicker of something darker.

The air vibrates with it. Like the space between us might shatter.

Then—without warning—he moves.

In one swift motion, Damon closes the gap between us. His hand knots into my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck protests and my spine arches against the chair to keep from snapping.

The world tilts, and pain bursts like fireworks along my scalp—but I grit my teeth. Bite Hard. Taste blood.

I will not give him the sound of my scream.

His grip tightens, and I catch the movement of muscle in his forearm—every tendon lit with tension. The tattoos along his skin shift with the motion, smoke swirling over his veins like they’re alive.

He leans in close— too close.

His breath grazes my lips, cool and minty. The scent of him floods my senses—spice and amber, undercut by something unexpectedly soft.

Lavender .

It doesn’t belong on a man like him.

And maybe that’s what makes it stand out.

"You’re going to learn something very quickly, little rose ," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my skin. "Sometimes… knowledge isn’t power."

My pulse thrashes in my neck, but I keep the smirk etched onto my face like armour.

“Doesn’t seem that way from where I’m sitting,” I whisper .

His eyes pause on mine, something unreadable churning beneath the surface. His grip loosens—almost reluctantly —before he lets go altogether.

And then, it’s like he’s gone.

The heat of his body fades, replaced by the sterile chill of concrete and silence. The spot where his hand touched the back of my neck throbs, like it’s still branded with the echo of his control.

He turns toward the door, his movements clipped and frustrated. As he passes the stool, his leg hits it.

A small inconvenience—but one that pushes him over the edge.

He kicks it. Hard .

The wooden legs crack against the wall, splintering into jagged pieces that scatter across the floor like the aftermath of a tornado.

He shoves the door open with his shoulder and disappears, letting it slam behind him with thunderous finality.

And when the lock finally clicks, a long, shaky breath tumbles out of me. My chest deflates like I’d been holding it since the second he walked in.

Maybe I was.

It’s pure relief. Not because I’m safe.

Because I’m still alive .

Damon King doesn’t leave loose ends. If he thought I had nothing to offer, I’d already be dead on this floor. That tells me everything I need to know.

He needs something.

Answers. Information. Leverage.

And for now, I’m the only one who can give it to him.

Information for information .

That’s always been my currency.