Page 15 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

A LL IT TOOK WAS ONE CURSORY GLANCE at the cameras Lee installed in Brianna’s apartment—and I’ve devolved into a fucking lowlife stalker.

I’d pulled up the feed after a long, overdue sleep that bled well into the evening.

Her place still bears the scars of last night’s invasion.

The mangled lock on her living room window is barely hanging on, and Connor’s blood is still splattered across the fibres of her white rug like some violent signature.

I was already looking into window repairs and rug replacements when she stepped out of what I assume is her bedroom—wearing nothing but a flimsy white robe.

And I nearly choked on my own breath.

Her chestnut-brown hair, still damp, has darkened to the colour of melted chocolate. Her skin glows with residual heat—rose-toned, sun-warmed, soft. She’s almost too much to look at. Like a painting hung in a museum you’re not supposed to touch.

Maybe it’s a good thing I let her go. Because she’s already becoming an addiction.

And addictions like her?

Dangerous.

For her. For me. For everyone I hold close.

I drag a shirt over my head as I keep one eye on the screen. She moves through the apartment with nervous energy—rummaging through cabinets, peering over her shoulder.

She’s on edge. Rightfully so .

Then she spins suddenly, a solid wood cutting board gripped in both hands, poised like she’s about to bludgeon someone to death with it.

And for some reason, it’s hotter than it probably should be.

God . Maybe I did scare her too much.

She lowers the board slowly, her shoulders slumping. One breath. Then another.

I can’t stop staring.

What I wouldn’t give to be behind her right now—to snake my arms around her waist and pin her to my chest. To feel her shudder when I whisper taunts into her ear. To watch her fear melt into want.

To hear her say my name like it’s both a curse and a confession—

“Damon, are you up here?”

Connor’s voice barrels through the hall.

I nearly fling my phone across the room. It bounces off the mattress and lands near the foot of the bed. The kind of reflex you expect from a teenage boy getting caught watching porn.

Except this feels worse .

Connor knocks once, then opens the door like he owns the place, leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, we got an alert. Rich CEO beating on his son.”

“Take Monroe and Chavez,” I say, threading a black leather belt through the loops of my jeans. “I’ll stay back. Cover the bar.”

Connor stares like I just told him I’m retiring in Georgia to raise goats and learn calligraphy.

“ Damon King doesn’t want to go out and kill an abusive asshole?” He squints, suspicious. “Are you sick?”

In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve realized how much I hate when people say my full name like it’s a brand.

“I just woke up from the most stressful day I’ve had since leaving the Songbirds,” I say flatly. “Forgive me for taking one night off.”

I lean down and grab my phone.

The screen lights up—the camera feed still open .

Brianna is in her kitchen. Still in that robe. Still radiating tension as she looks down at her phone. Her face is paler now, lips parted like she’s just read something she didn’t like.

“I knew this was going to happen.” Connor folds his arms, giving me a slow shake of his head like a disappointed older brother. “You can’t stop watching her, can you?”

I stay silent.

He’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving him the satisfaction.

“I’m just making sure she’s not doing anything suspicious.”

“Uh-huh,” Connor scoffs. “You want to keep her from doing anything suspicious? Should’ve kept her locked up. But since she’s a feisty little brunette with pretty doe eyes and thick thighs—”

“Can you write your fanfiction somewhere else?” I snap.

Connor holds up both hands in mock surrender, but there’s something darker behind his grin now. A flicker of resentment.

“I let her leave because we made a deal,” I say. “And I’m keeping my eye on her to make sure she holds up her end.”

His grin fades. Eyes narrowing slightly.

“Kind of like that deal you made with Matthias O’Doyle?”

There it is.

His grudge against the Songbirds has never sat quietly—not since the day I met him. He knew the history. Knew I struck a deal with O’Doyle to clear Kings of gang activity and avoid a full-on war. He accepted it. But he never liked it.

All I know is they killed someone close to him. He’s never told me who. But I know trauma when I see it. And I know what it means to bond with someone over that kind of damage.

Trauma bonding is real. And it’s strong.

But not strong enough to stop Connor from constantly questioning whether I made the right call.

And deep down, I’m wondering the same thing.

About Brie.

About all of it .

“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket, “O’Doyle’s looking for a reason to retaliate. You might get your chance to put a few more Songbirds down if he does.”

Connor perks up, smug as hell. “Now you’re just buttering me up so I don’t tell Monroe about your little crush.”

“Get the fuck out before I put you down.”

He laughs like I didn’t just threaten his life and struts down the hall, boots thudding against hardwood.

I swear, he lives to test me.

But while Connor often feels like an older brother, Monroe has always been more of a father figure. As the eldest of us, he carries that deadpan, quiet authority that only comes from surviving the kind of shit no one else dares talk about.

And there’s nothing more humiliating than getting scolded by your Hispanic dad—especially when he’s not even your real one.

I glance at my phone again.

Brianna’s finished eating. The empty bowl rests on her kitchen island. Her office door is cracked open, spilling warm light into the dark hallway beyond.

She’s working again. Maybe trying to forget the last twenty-four hours ever happened.

Connor’s words echo back.

You can’t stop watching her, can you?

I shove my phone deep into my pocket, like burying it will somehow shut him up.

I need to stop looking at her.

For my own good.

For hers.

What I need to do is focus—on finding Lola, on figuring out who’s behind this.

She was the one who reached out to Brianna. She put the offer on the table. And Lola doesn’t work for free. Whoever’s backing her has deep pockets—and a deeper interest in my life.

Brie made it clear. She doesn’t want my protection .

She can hold her own. I’ve seen it. Hell, she nearly took Connor’s hand off with a pocketknife.

But she’s underestimating something.

Me.

She doesn’t understand how many enemies I’ve made.

And worse, she doesn’t understand just how far they’ll go to make me bleed.

W ITH L EE TRACKING down Lola, and Connor, Monroe, and Chavez out on a job, I take a seat at the far end of The Speakeasy’s bar and nurse a cold glass of Coke, pretending it’s something stronger.

Pretending I’m not thinking about the little rose in my pocket.

The bar’s quiet tonight. Not unusual. This place bleeds money most nights, but it’s worth every cent knowing it’s saved people.

All it takes is one woman walking through that door, ordering the right drink— The Coyote’s Howl —from the secret menu, and we can help her disappear. No questions asked. No strings attached.

It’s not foolproof. It relies on word of mouth, a bit of research, and a hell of a lot of trust. But it works better than anything the cops have ever managed.

Tonight, we’ve got a handful of college kids shooting pool and a few lonely souls glued to the TV, half-watching a muted football recap.

I’ve been trying to distract myself—taking stock of which bar supplies we’re low on, drumming my fingers in time with the music.

Someone’s swapped out Connor’s usual early-2000s dance playlist for something newer—songs I don’t recognize.

Probably one of the younger bartenders trying to modernize the vibe.

Meanwhile, my phone’s practically burning a hole through my jeans .

Connor’s voice is still echoing in my head, but it’s dulled beneath something else.

her scent. Roses.

Still lingering, even now. Even here.

I pull out my phone, promising myself this is just a precaution. Surveillance. She agreed to my terms. And if she breaks them, I’m well within my rights to pay her a visit.

Maybe even punish her.

But that’s the problem. My definition of punishment—when it comes to Brianna—is already dangerously skewed.

And I’d probably enjoy it way too fucking much.

The camera feed from her apartment is still live. The lights are low, and the place looks empty—except for the thin glow beneath her bedroom door.

Part of me is cursing Lee for not installing a camera in there. But the smarter part of me knows it’s for the best.

I couldn’t be trusted with that view.

I watch the stillness for a few quiet minutes, sipping from my glass.

It’s late. Maybe she’s fallen asleep. Maybe she’s dreaming.

Just as I move to lock the screen, her door opens.

Warm light spills into the room. Her silhouette moves forward—a shadow gliding across polished wood.

She flicks on the lamp near the entrance.

And I nearly choke .

Coke scorches up my nose and down my throat. I cough into my fist, my eyes burning—not from the drink, but from her.

She’s dressed in blood red. A dress short enough to bare most of her plush thighs.

Cinched at the waist, high-necked but scandalous in every other way.

Her chestnut hair falls in loose, wet-looking curls down her back.

Her lips are painted to match the dress—deep velvet.

Her hazel eyes are rimmed in shimmery champagne and sharp black liner.

She looks like a dream—a trap .

An angel with devil horns hidden beneath her halo.

My cock strains painfully against my zipper.

The things I’d do to be in that room with her right now …

I shift my sitting position under the bar, jaw tight, fingers clenched around my glass.

She slips into black heels. Shrugs on a long trench coat. One final glance in the mirror by her door.

She’s going somewhere.

Dressed like that.

A slow, seething rage coils in my gut.

There’s a short list of reasons a woman dresses like that at this hour, but only one is on my mind.

She’s meeting someone.

The idea of someone else looking at her— touching her—makes my vision haze around the edges.

She’s not mine. I have no right.

But fuck , the thought of another man seeing her like this. The thought of another man’s hands even coming near her—

That’s not happening.

Not tonight. Not ever.

She pulls out her phone and types something quickly into what looks like a private chat. The interface is familiar—almost identical to the forum Lee traced her to. The one she uses to track Songbirds.

Whoever she’s messaging replies with an address. A hotel not far from her apartment, perched right on the border between Kings and Queens.

She types a quick see you soon , shoves the phone into a clutch that’s definitely not big enough to hide a decent weapon, and then—

She lifts the hem of her dress.

Just enough to reveal the sleek silhouette of a small handgun strapped to her upper thigh.

The tightness in my chest eases.

Not all the way. But enough.

She’s not meeting someone. She’s hunting again.

The Black Rose bounces back faster than I expected.

The moment she steps out of her apartment, the front door to the bar swings open and Connor bursts in like a hurricane .

“Drinks!” he calls to the bartenders, grinning like a jackass.

Monroe follows behind him, silent and composed, brushing off the cold as he heads straight for me. Chavez closes the door and drifts to the stool beside mine.

“Jason Peterborough won’t be a problem anymore,” Monroe says, keeping his voice low.

Chavez grins. “Also made a generous donation to the children’s hospital before he quite literally bit the bullet.” He flags a bartender with two fingers.

“Good.” I nod to both of them and push off the stool. “I’m stepping out.”

Monroe checks his watch. “Give me five minutes—I’ll come with.”

“No,” I say—too quickly. “It’s not business. I’ll be fine.”

Monroe gives me a suspicious look. One brow raised.

Chavez swivels on his stool, smirking. “If it’s not business, that make it pleasure ?”

My silence says more than I intend it to.

Monroe narrows his eyes, reading me like an open file. Like a father scrutinizing his own disgrace.

“If you’re going to see her ,” he says, calm but firm, “you should be bringing backup. You can’t trust her.”

“Relax,” I tell him. “She’s meeting with someone. I’m just making sure she keeps her word. I won’t get close—she won’t even know I’m there. And if things go sideways, I’ll call for backup.”

Chavez snorts. I smack the back of his head, but he only laughs harder.

Monroe’s jaw ticks. “I don’t like this, Damon.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say again. “If I’m not back in a few hours, you’ve got my phone’s location. Feel free to kill anyone involved.”

The two of them glance at one another. No more warnings. Just a quiet understanding that they don’t trust this.

I walk out the door without looking back.

I’m not even sure what I’m going to do when I get there. I told Monroe it wasn’t business—and that much was true .

But I think he saw right through me.

He knows.

Knows that if I see a single Songbird lay eyes on her, I won’t be able to hold back.

She’s out there, chasing ghosts with fire in her veins. And I’ll follow her straight into hell if I have to.

Because she’s mine—I’ve decided.

Whether she likes it or not.