Page 14 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I HOPE I NEVER HEAR THE NAME D AMON K ING

ever again.

The cab ride home was awkward, to say the least, considering I’m basically naked from the waist down.

Thankfully, the driver just gave me a strange look didn’t ask questions.

The drive was silent, save for the quiet hum of the engine and the static crackle of the radio.

I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the skyline blur in the rising sun.

When we finally reached my building, I paid in cash and didn’t wait for change.

I punch in the code at the front door and step inside, pressing my back hard against the wood as it shuts behind me. The lock clicks, but it doesn’t make me feel safer.

The apartment is cast in soft orange light, the early sun filtering in between the buildings across the street. Any other morning, this kind of glow might feel warm—gentle. Like something worth smiling about.

Today, it just exposes the wreckage.

The broken lock on my living room window. The furniture askew from the struggle. Dried blood stains on the rug.

I drag my fingers through my hair, but they catch on knots—on the dried sweat, the tension, the ghost of his touch. The feeling of Damon’s fingers still tangled in my scalp lingers like phantom vines, making my skin crawl.

I need a shower.

A long, scalding one.

I drop my laptop in the office and lock the door behind me. Then I move through the apartment on autopilot, making my way to the bedroom .

I toss my phone onto the bed and tear off my T-shirt in one frantic motion.

It feels abrasive on my skin—like the ropes. Like his hands.

Even after it’s discarded in a heap on the floor, I still feel bound and helpless. Like I’m back in that fucking chair.

Something is wrapped around me. Coiling. Constricting. Tighter and tighter.

A python. A memory.

A man with hands strong as steel and poisonous green eyes.

The pressure crushes my ribs, squeezes the air from my lungs. The weight on my chest is too heavy.

The weight of him is too heavy.

Pressing my knees into my ribs until they crack.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t —

I collapse, catching myself on my hands and knees. My palms scrape against the floorboards as my chest caves in. My vision blurs with tears that never quite fall, and my nails dig into the wood like I can somehow claw my way out of this feeling.

Breathe, Brie. He’s not here.

It’s her voice— Amie’s . Soothing. Soft. Almost real.

I shake my head, trying to shake her loose.

But I can feel her. A phantom hand on my shoulder. Warm breath in my hair.

You’re okay. Just Breathe. You’re okay.

No, I’m not.

She’s gone.

She’s gone and I didn’t save her and I’m still here.

I squeeze my eyes shut, locking the tears behind my lashes, and suck in a breath. Shallow. Incomplete. But it’s something.

In. One... two... three.

Out. One... two... three.

Again .

And again.

And again.

I don’t know how long I sit there, folded in on myself, repeating the ritual like a prayer to a god that never answered me.

Eventually, the world settles. My lungs remember how to function. My chest loosens. The shaking dulls.

But I still feel empty. Like my bones have liquefied. If I try to stand, I know I’ll fall again—so I don’t.

I crawl up the side of the bed and slide beneath the sheets like a ghost pulling itself back into a grave. I curl in on myself, tight and small in the center of the mattress.

I wish Amie were here.

I wish I could go back to that night and change something— anything .

Stop it from happening. Take her place. Get five more minutes.

Just five more minutes .

The tears flow quietly this time, slipping from the corners of my eyes, soaking into the sheets.

I need to find the ones who did this. Fast.

And I’m going to have to do it without the leverage Damon King could have given me.

I DON’T KNOW how long I slept, but when I open my eyes again, it’s dark. Moonlight pours through the open curtains, draping everything in cold silver.

I force myself to sit up, even as every muscle aches and protests. My limbs feel too tight—like they’ve been wound up on a crank and left to seize and stiffen.

I doubt a hot shower would help. So I run a bath instead.

It feels bizarre—almost surreal—to reach for the Epsom salts and pour them into the tub like this is any other night. Like I didn’t nearly die less than twenty-four hours ago.

The scent of eucalyptus and spearmint rises from the steam—clean, sharp, and grounding. I lean into the strange comfort of the routine and, just for the hell of it, add some rose-scented bubble bath.

Because, at this point, why not?

I rarely take baths anymore, but there was a time when they were part of my routine. Friday nights were sacred—spa nights with Mom and Amie. Sheet masks, fuzzy robes, enough scented lotion to make us shine like glazed donuts.

It was our little tradition. Our bubble of peace.

When I left for MIT, the ritual came with me. Fridays became bubble bath nights. A scented candle. A shitty romance novel. Peace .

When was the last time I’d done this?

Feels like it was part of another life. Another girl .

I step into the tub slowly, lowering myself until the hot water kisses every muscle like a soothing balm. The tub here isn’t as deep as the one back home. It’s a simple shower-tub combo shoved into an alcove, the overflow drain so low I can barely cover my shoulders.

Still, I sink in. Let the water hold me.

I close my eyes.

And immediately, I hear him.

If you don’t deliver what they want, someone will come knocking.

Damon’s voice seeps in like steam under a locked door—hot, inescapable, and everywhere at once.

You’d be safer here.

And the worst part? He’s probably right.

If he really meant what he said—if he’s not planning to kill me—then he has every reason to keep me alive. To protect what I know. To keep others from getting close enough to pry it out of me.

There’s no proof left. Lee watched me delete it all. But it’s in my head now. Etched into memory.

His friends. His secrets. That house in Rhode Island—and whoever lives there.

He should’ve killed me.

It was stupid not to .

And yet... I believe him. About the killing. About the line he won’t cross unless someone deserves it.

Songbirds. Abusers. Monsters.

Damon King is a monster. But not the kind who hunts at random. He hunts with purpose. Some might call him a vigilante of sorts—though I doubt he’d ever use a word like that to describe himself.

I can’t stop wondering how he made the leap—from low-level gang recruit to the Coyote everyone fears.

There’s no paper trail. No whispers online. No thread I can tug to unravel the truth. Whatever changed him… it happened in the dark.

As I sink lower into the tub, letting the water crawl up my hair and into my scalp, I can’t help but think about his hands. The way he gripped the back of my neck. The pressure. The way he tugged my hair like he owned it. Like he owned me .

The low scrape of his breath against my skin. My name on his tongue—laced with venom… and something sweeter.

My stomach flips, but not with fear.

I jolt upright, water sloshing over the rim of the tub and splashing onto the tile floor. My shoulders sting as they break the surface and hit the cold air above.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Damon King is not someone I should be thinking about in the bath —or at all .

He’s dangerous. He’s manipulative. He’s a goddamn ex-Songbird. I cannot trust him. Not even for a second.

For all I know, he’s already plotting how to make my death look like an accident—maybe off-property, somewhere no one will ask too many questions.

I soak until the water cools and my skin prunes like a citrus peel. Then I drain the tub and rinse off quickly in the shower, scrubbing every inch of myself with a stiff-bristled brush until my skin stings.

I wash my hair twice. Once to clean. Once to forget.

When I step out, I wrap myself in my thin white robe and pad barefoot across the bathroom and through the bedroom .

I don’t bother getting dressed. If anyone else breaks in while I’m cooking, at least I’ll be able to flash them and catch them off guard while I go for my gun.

In the kitchen, I pull up a recipe on my phone—split-pea soup in the Instant Pot. It’s the quick version of my comfort food. A lazy rendition of the one Mom used to make.

She’d roll in her grave if she saw me using canned broth and frozen peas.

Scratch that—she’d rise from the grave just to lecture me about the importance of layering flavours and soaking legumes overnight.

The thought almost makes me smile. Almost .

As I reach into the upper cabinet for a cutting board, a sudden shiver slices down my spine. That primal instinct—the one that’s kept me alive the last six months—tightens its grip.

Someone’s watching me…

I spin on my heels, cutting board raised over my shoulder like a weapon.

But the apartment is silent.

Windows shut. Curtains drawn. Door locked. No movement. No shadow lurking in the corner.

I lower the board slowly, my pulse fluttering in my throat.

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel safe in here again. Not after last night. Not after him .

Before I can fully exhale, my phone buzzes violently on the island counter. The vibration sounds louder than it should—like a scream echoing through the silence.

I snatch it up, gripping it tight to my chest before I force myself to look at the screen. Unknown: Good evening, Rose. Any complications I should know about?

My blood runs cold.

The text is simple. Polite.

But also terrifying.

They already know. They have to. No one sends a message like that unless they’re sure I’ve already failed.

My fingers hover above the screen, trembling. It’s like I can feel Damon behind me again, watching from the shadows, his breath grazing the back of my neck.

If you ever breathe a word about what you know, I’ll find out.

And I don’t doubt that for a second.

My thumbs move on autopilot.

Me:

Our deal is off.

I can’t get the information you asked for.

Please do not contact this number again.

I hit send before I can second-guess it. Before fear rips the phone from my hands. I power it off and place it face-down on the counter, like that might somehow sever the thread between me to whoever’s on the other end.

I run my fingers through my hair. Still damp from the bath. Still tangled from the chaos of the last twenty-four hours.

Get it together, Brie.

I need to refocus.

I’ll find what I’m looking for—without backroom deals or anonymous handlers.

I’ll forget about Damon.

About his brooding, brutal inner circle.

And I’ll go back to what I’m good at.

Hunting Songbirds.