Page 18 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I F I ’M GOING TO BE SHOVED INTO SOME mystery safehouse under Damon King’s protection, I’m going to be goddamn comfortable doing it.

Once his cleanup crew arrived, it took them less than thirty minutes to erase the mess from the hotel room—Calvin’s blood, his body, the evidence of the fight. The place probably hasn’t been this clean since the day the foundation was poured.

I, on the other hand, am still crusted in blood and sweat. And while I won, I can't pretend that didn’t get far messier than I’d planned.

I wasn’t prepared for Calvin to show up tonight. I should have been—should’ve anticipated that working for a faceless employer would come with strings attached. But I got complacent. I got sloppy.

And Damon? He threw me off worse than Calvin did.

That little performance back there—where I half expected him to pull the trigger just to prove a point—was exactly the distraction I needed.

But I’ll never admit that out loud. His ego’s already inflated enough.

As soon as the crew leaves, along with the corpse they’ll no doubt dispose of creatively, Damon leads me to the parking garage. A sleek, semi-familiar SUV sits there waiting.

“Do I get to ride shotgun this time,” I mutter as we approach, “or should I just throw myself into the backseat and save you the trouble? ”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” he asks, pulling open the front passenger door.

“Did you expect me to?” I shoot back, sliding in.

He smirks and shuts the door without another word. I watch him circle the hood, eyes scanning the shadows even though his expression reads like he’s on vacation.

It’s easy to forget that beneath the polished King of Kings facade, he’s still The Coyote—trained by a gang that kills for loyalty and burns cities over bruised egos.

He’s killed Songbirds. Hunted his own. Long before he had an inner circle to clean up after him, Damon King made himself into a legend.

And as much as I hate it, part of me feels safer with him nearby.

He slips behind the wheel, starts the engine.

Before he can pull out of the spot, I say, “Take me to my apartment.”

He doesn’t even look at me. Just exhales like I’m a toddler insisting he let me try to touch the stovetop.

“I thought we had this conversation upstairs, little rose. But if you want to be forced ... I can oblige.”

My stomach twists—not out of fear, but from something darker. Something curious.

How would he force me? I wonder.

“No,” I grumble. “I just need to grab a few things. And maybe take a shower before I catch a disease from that guy’s blood.”

He pauses, clearly considering it, but doesn’t argue. Just shifts into drive and pulls out of the garage.

“Guessing you don’t need my address,” I say dryly, resting my temple against the cool passenger side window.

He flashes me that same smug grin I’ve come to loathe. “No, Brianna, I don’t need your address.”

I chew the inside of my cheek.

The next words spill out like a reflex. I’ve said them countless times to professors, study partners, new acquaintances. It’s just muscle memory by now.

“You can call me Brie. No one calls me Brianna. ”

“Brie,” he repeats, drawing it out like he’s testing how my name fits in his mouth. “We’re close enough for nicknames now, are we?”

I scowl and cross my arms, shifting further toward the door. “It’s not a nickname. It’s literally my name. Besides, not like it’s stopped you from calling me little rose every damn chance you get.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Right you are, little rose.”

I sigh, long and slow, already regretting every word I’ve said tonight.

This alliance—whatever it is—is going to get exhausting fast.

And if I’m stuck in close quarters with Damon King for longer than a few hours, there’s a very real chance one of us won’t make it out alive.

U NEASE CURLS LOW in my chest the second we get to my apartment.

I’m not sure if it’s Damon’s looming presence behind me or the residual panic simmering from what happened at the hotel, but I move cautiously—punching in my door code and flicking on the lights before I’ve even made it through the doorway.

Everything looks the way I left it. My dishes are still on the counter, untouched since dinner. My day bag is on the kitchen island, where I swapped a few essentials into a smaller clutch. And when I jiggle the office doorknob, it’s still locked.

My lungs expand a little easier.

I toe off my heels and shrug out of my coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. When I turn to glance at Damon, though, he’s still sharp and coiled, like he’s waiting for something to lunge out of the shadows.

“You never got that window fixed, did you?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “In the two days since your guys busted it in? No, can’t say I got around to it. ”

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he draws his gun and flicks the safety off.

Every nerve in my spine tightens. I move behind him, hovering a hand over my own weapon, my pulse matching the slow sweep of his gaze as he stalks from room to room.

We find nothing. No signs of a break-in. No trace of an uninvited guest.

Still, his jaw doesn’t unclench.

“I’m going to hop in the shower,” I mutter, more annoyed than anything. “Don’t touch anything.”

He glances at me, distracted. “Be quick.”

No teasing. No cocky comment about joining me. No smug grin.

Something about him feels off —and that unsettles me more than the silence itself. I try not to think about it as I shut my bedroom door.

The dress I wore peels off my skin, dried blood sticking like a second layer.

My thigh stings and I spot the graze on my leg from where my own shot skimmed me.

There’s a slight burn left from the heat of the gunpowder, but nothing too serious.

The skin’s red, peeling back in some spots, but I choose to ignore the pain.

I can wash it off when I get into the shower.

I’m just grabbing a pair of leggings and an oversized grey T-shirt when I hear Damon’s voice through the door.

“Not fucking possible,” he mutters, angry and low.

I pause, clothes in hand. “What’s wrong?” I call, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“Skip the shower,” he says. “Someone was definitely here. And not that long ago.”

I yank the clothes on quickly, biting back another wince as the fabric scrapes against the burn. My fingers tremble slightly as I pull the shirt over my head. “How do you know?”

Silence.

When I swing the door open, he’s standing just outside, eyes locked on his phone, tension thrumming through every inch of him. He’s scrubbing through a video—frame by frame—his face carved from stone .

“How do you know ?” I ask again, sharper now.

He finally looks at me, almost sheepish.

“I had Monroe and Lee install cameras in your living room.”

My stomach drops. “You fucking perv .”

“In your living room ,” he repeats, calm and slow, like I’m the irrational one. “It was a precaution. To make sure you didn’t pull anything shady after I let you go.”

“Usually, letting someone go implies you’re not turning their apartment into the big brother house,” I snap. “You don’t get to play prison warden after the fact.”

I want to stay angry. Really, I do.

But if someone was here —if someone slipped past my defences while I was out there killing Calvin and pretending I had everything under control—then Damon’s overreach might have just saved me.

Again .

I take a breath, force myself to refocus. “Did you catch them on camera? If you got a face, I can run it. Find out who they are, where they went.”

He shakes his head, grinding his teeth.

“They hacked the system. Server-side. Which, by the way, shouldn’t be possible. There’s a thirty-minute gap in the feed. Picks back up the second we walked through the door.”

Cold dread pools in my gut.

“But nothing’s missing,” I murmur. “We didn’t find anything moved.”

He looks at me like I’m missing the obvious.

“Because they weren’t here for your things , Brie. They were here for you .”

My mouth goes dry.

“Then why leave?” I ask. “Why bail if I was the target?”

Damon shrugs, but it’s tight. Calculated. “If they can hack my cameras, odds are they tapped into your building’s trash security too. Maybe they saw I was with you. Maybe they decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”

Normally, I’d scoff. Call him arrogant.

But tonight? He’s probably right .

For the second time today, Damon King might be the reason I’m still breathing.

“Pack a bag,” Damon orders, shoving his phone into his pocket. “We’ll get to the bottom of this later—when you’re somewhere safe.”

My throat tightens as I nod and turn toward the closet, pulling out the same small suitcase I used the day I left my parents’ house.

Back then, it was packed full of stuff. I didn’t know what I’d need.

Now, most of the things I own just feel like dead weight anyway—except for a handful of items I refuse to part with.

I toss the suitcase onto the bed and start pulling open drawers, mindlessly stuffing in clothes and the photo album I keep in my bottom drawer.

My hands move on autopilot, but my chest burns the second I see the frame with Amie’s picture that’s sitting on my dresser. I grab it with shaking fingers and slide it gently between folded fabric.

Behind me, Damon lingers like a shadow.

“Can you grab the essentials from the bathroom?” I ask without looking at him.

He nods and disappears into the ensuite.

I’m halfway through clearing the top drawer when I hear the rattle of plastic and glass banging against porcelain. “What exactly counts as essential in here?” he grumbles from inside.

“Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant…” I rattle off, distracted—until I hear what can only be described as chaos .

Bottles clattering against each other, something falling onto the tile, a cabinet door swinging shut.

He reappears holding a towel bundled like a newborn—stuffed with damn near everything but the bathroom sink.

I blink. “Did you just… sweep the cabinet into a towel?”

“It was faster,” he says, entirely unbothered as he drops the whole mess into my suitcase. Then he nudges me gently out of the way, zips it shut in one swift motion, and slings it off the bed like it weighs nothing. “Ready?”

“I just need my laptop from the office. ”

He follows me down the hall, hovering behind me like a bodyguard on edge. I punch in the code and the door unlocks with a soft click . Everything inside looks untouched, which makes the knot in my chest ease—barely.

I reach into the drawer for my laptop, fingers brushing cold metal. Just as I turn to leave, I glance at the bookshelf. Amie’s old box set of Degrassi catches my eye.

Stupid.

But I grab it anyway.

“Are you kidding?” Damon asks, raising a brow at the bright box in my arms. “DVDs? Really? What happened to essentials?”

I stare at him flatly. “Do you want to waste time debating it, or are we getting the fuck out of here?”

He sighs and drops it. Smart choice.

We make it back to the garage in record time. He throws the suitcase into the trunk like it’s filled with feathers while I climb into the passenger seat. The door slams shut, and for the first time all night, I feel my ribs start to loosen their chokehold on my lungs.

Damon slides in beside me, starts the engine, and backs out smoothly.

“So…” I say, the word coming out a little breathier than I’d like, “do I get to know where you’re taking me, or is it some kind of secret safehouse?”

“It’s not a safehouse exactly,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road. “But it’s the safest place in the city.”

Of course he doesn’t give me any more details.

I wait a beat. Then another.

Still nothing.

“Care to elaborate?” I ask, more annoyed than curious now.

He glances over at me. A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth.

Cocky bastard.