Page 19 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

“ N O,” I SAY FIRMLY.

“Sorry to break it to you, little rose,” Damon drawls as he wheels my suitcase off the elevator into his penthouse , “but you don’t have a choice.”

“You seriously think me staying here is the safest option?” I snap, my irritation flaring hot and fast. “You’re not exactly incognito. People know who you are. It wouldn’t take much to find your address.”

“Even if they do,” a new voice rises from behind us—deep, rough, and familiar, “they won’t be able to get in.”

I whirl toward the elevator where Monroe is now leaning against the frame like some kind of tattooed gargoyle. His arms are crossed, biceps bulging against his black T-shirt. He looks like he’d rather swallow glass than have this conversation.

Perfect .

The contempt in his eyes tells me this wasn’t his idea, and he’s not a huge fan of it either.

“Right,” I mutter. “Almost forgot about your attack dogs. Where are the other two? Lurking in the shadows somewhere?”

“Working,” Damon says flatly. His attention shifts to Monroe, his tone tightening. “Someone came after her at the Sandbanks. Tried forcing her to hand over the information she has on me.”

Monroe’s expression doesn’t budge. If anything, his jaw clenches tighter .

“Maybe letting her go wasn’t your best idea then,” he says, his voice clipped and cold.

Damon stiffens slightly. Not enough for most to catch—but I do.

Just for a second, he deflates under Monroe’s harsh glare. Regret shadows his eyes before he snaps back into control.

“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done,” he says. “Her apartment’s compromised. They hacked the cameras. She can’t go back.”

Monroe nods once. “I’ll have Lee pull the drive and see if he can recover the footage.”

Then his eyes land on me—assessing, impassive. Not cruel, but distant in a way that feels distinctly military.

“I’ll send Chavez up to set her up in a room. We’ll talk more at base.”

Damon gives him a tight nod, and Monroe turns and steps back into the elevator.

The second the doors slide shut, I raise a brow at Damon. “Are you not that guy’s boss?” I ask. “Because it really feels like he’s the one calling the shots.”

Damon shrugs, unbothered by my jab at his authority. “I pay his bills, sure. But he outranks me in age, experience... a few lifetimes’ worth, probably. I’d be an idiot not to listen when he speaks.”

He moves toward the living room, my suitcase still in hand. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t see anyone from my circle as employees. They’re family. That’s how I built this.”

That sentiment hits me harder than it should.

Family.

Familial bonds are built much stronger than business ones, so it’s the smarter choice. Though, I guess I’m a little surprised that he managed to find four people that he could trust enough to consider family after leaving the Songbirds.

Somehow, that makes me trust it more—not a lot, but more.

The silence that follows is thick—not hostile, but heavy. I let it stretch while I take Damon’s expansive apartment.

Calling it an apartment feels criminal .

The space resembles some kind of luxury compound, easily rivaling the square footage of my parents’ house. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, spilling moonlight across the rich oak floors and black-marble finishes.

A massive chef’s kitchen gleams to my right, complete with stainless-steel appliances, a six-burner gas stove, and an island that could double as a runway. It’s the kind of place my mom would’ve drooled over in those glossy design magazines she used to collect.

Beyond it, the living room dips down into plush black carpet, centered beneath a sprawling charcoal sectional and a custom entertainment setup so sleek I can practically hear Amie and my dad squealing over it.

It hurts to think about how much they would’ve loved all of this.

And how wrong it is that I’m here to see it and they’re not.

“I guess being a Songbird had its perks,” I say under my breath, just trying to distract myself from the ache in my ribs.

But Damon hears me.

“The opposite,” he says. “This is what I built after I left them. The King’s Eye paid for most of it.”

I glance back at him. For a second—just a second—his face flickers with something other than a sinister stare and devil smirk.

Guilt? Regret? Maybe both.

I wonder if it’s guilt for leaving them behind. Or guilt for surviving when others didn’t.

But I don’t ask.

I don’t care enough to ask.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

“You keep wincing every time you move,” Damon says flatly, like it’s an inconvenience to him.

I glance down at my thigh, where the burn still simmers against my skin. I hadn’t noticed I’d been favouring my other leg, but of course he did.

“I’m fine,” I snap back, shrugging it off.

“You’re in pain,” he mutters. His gaze darkens as he steps toward me. “Did that fucker land a hit on you? ”

I instinctively step back, but the edge of the kitchen island meets my spine, blocking my escape.

“It’s just a powder burn from when I shot him,” I grit out, though the words sound smaller— weaker —than I want them to.

“You shot down your thigh...” he says quietly, more to himself than to me. He shakes his head like he’s disappointed he didn’t put it together sooner. “Let me see it.”

“ Fuck no,” I hiss, my hand flying to swat his away as he dares to brush the band of my tights. The heat of his fingers ghosts across my hip before I shove him back, sharp and fast. “Don’t touch me.”

His brows knit together, eyes sharpening with something dark—anger, worry, I can’t tell.

He opens his mouth, probably to bark something back at me—but the elevator ding, and the door slides open.

Chavez waltzes out, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees how close we’re standing to one another—me practically pinned against the island, Damon hovering over me like a storm cloud.

His brows rise, a smirk spreading slowly across his face. “I get the sense I’m interrupting.”

Damon takes a deliberate step back, creating space—but it doesn’t matter. The scent of him still clings to the air between us.

I hate how aware of it I am. How warm it feels even now.

“I’m not usually one to cock-block,” Chavez adds, eyes bouncing between us with wicked amusement, “but Monroe getting impatient.”

Damon’s jaw clenches, the muscle twitching in irritation, but he doesn’t argue.

“I’ll have Dahlia come check on her,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward me like I’m a piece of cargo. “Get her settled in one of the empty rooms.”

Chavez gives him a lazy two-finger salute as Damon brushes past and disappears into the elevator. The doors close behind him, and for a moment, I expect silence .

Instead, Chavez sighs at me like a disappointed older brother. “Hurt yourself again, huh?”

It’s not really a question. It’s more like a condescending observation.

My jaw tightens as my mind flashes back to the holding cell at The Speakeasy—to me, on the floor, bloodied and bound, trying to bite through panic like it were steel cables. Chavez had picked me up then. Not cruel. But not kind either.

“I’m fine,” I grind out, already exhausted by the phrase. “Just show me to a room.”

He grabs the handle of my suitcase and wheels it down the hallway. There are eight doors, four on each side, sleek and nearly identical—except for the last one on the right, which has a keypad lock bolted above the knob.

I file the detail away. Locked doors always mean something.

“These all bedrooms?” I ask as we walk.

“Yep,” Chavez replies. “Damon lets us crash here between jobs. Most of them are a little lived in—except the second-last on the left. No one’s claimed that one.”

I can’t decide if the thought of being surrounded by Damon’s inner circle makes me feel safer or more exposed. There’s something about being in close quarters with his family that scratches at old wounds.

I’m not part of this unit. I never will be. And I don’t trust them.

Chavez opens the door and gestures me inside. I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe something cold and sterile. Spartan.

But it’s the opposite.

The room is bigger than my entire apartment. Soft, moody lighting spills across dark hardwood floors. There’s a king-sized bed wrapped in charcoal sheets, layered beneath a thick, quilted black comforter. At the foot, a chunky white velvet knit blanket is folded like a whisper of warmth.

It looks almost exactly like the one my grandma made for Amie and me .

I freeze for a beat, breath caught somewhere between my ribs.

There’s a full ensuite, a walk-in closet, and a balcony overlooking the city skyline where stars blink faintly against the smog-choked sky.

It’s beautiful. Too beautiful.

I don’t know what to do with it all.

“If this is the guest room,” I mutter, “what the fuck does Damon’s room look like?”

Chavez chuckles behind me, clearly not trying to hide the fact that he heard. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to show you—if you asked.”

I shoot him a dry glare.

“Relax, firecracker,” he grins. “I’m only teasing.”

I brush Chavez off and sit on the edge of the bed, setting my laptop and DVDs beside me. The mattress is perfect—not too soft, not too firm. Supportive enough to feel expensive, but still plush enough to sink into.

Chavez leans over to inspect the box next to me, curiosity written all over his face.

“What?” I ask, nudging the case back like he might try to steal it.

“What the heck is Degrassi ?” he asks, squinting like the name personally offends him somehow.

“A TV show,” I reply flatly.

He gives me an exaggerated eyeroll. “No shit. Not one I’ve ever heard of.”

I shrug. “It was more popular in Canada.”

“You’re from Canada?”

“My mom—”

The word was sits at the back of my throat. It’s sharp, like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. I swallow it back down.

“I have family there.”

Chavez gives me a look that makes me shift uncomfortably. It’s not pity, exactly. More like he’s mentally buffering, trying to line up what I said with what he expected and getting a glitchy result .