Page 2 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

“At least you’re still hot. The nerd hasn’t taken over yet,” she teases, tugging at a loose thread on my sweatshirt’s embroidery until it snaps off cleanly. “Can I have this?”

I sigh and head to the trunk to grab my suitcase. “I haven’t even stepped into the house and you’re already looting my closet?”

“Obviously,” she says, her tone flat. “None of your old stuff smells like you anymore. ”

The words hit like a soft blow—gentle, but bruising all the same.

She’s always been like that. So blunt. So painfully honest. But somehow it never comes out sharp or hurtful—just real.

I set the suitcase down, and Amie immediately snatches it up—partly to be helpful, but mostly so she can dig through it the second we get upstairs.

“I’ll leave it for you before I go back to school,” I say. “Let me at least wash it once—make it smell more like me and less like the airport.”

Amie’s whole face lights up, her cheeks glowing the way Dad’s do when he’s excited.

“Deal.”

A FTER DOUBLE SERVINGS of dinner and a thick slice of Mom’s cheesecake—topped with a full rainbow of fresh fruit—I’m fuller than I’ve been in months.

They’re not lying about college students’ eating habits. Ramen and boxed mac and cheese become your best friends whether you like it or not. Even with the luxury of a rich dad and a cushy bank account, there’s just never enough time to cook something real.

Nothing that even tries to compare to Mom’s kitchen.

Now, Amie and I are curled up under our favourite chunky knit blanket—hand-knit by our grandmother.

She swore it’d be big enough for both of us, but that’s a lie we’ve disproved at least hundred times.

We tug and wrestle over it constantly—sometimes to cover frozen toes, but mostly just to drive each other insane.

“You’ve got most of it bunched up beside you, and you’re not even using it,” Amie grumbles, digging her fingers into the weave as she yanks the blanket toward herself.

“You’re so full of shit!” I snap, pulling it back over my now-exposed right foot.

From the kitchen, Mom lets out a long-suffering sigh that still manages to sound amused. “You know, I don’t think your Nana would appreciate hearing that all you two do is fight over her gift.”

I pop up on my knees, leaning over the back of the couch. “Mom, let’s be honest—if Nana were here, she’d be taking bets on who’d win.”

Amie’s voice rises immediately. “Yeah, and she’d bet on me.”

“To lose, maybe,” I toss over my shoulder.

“Brie’s been home less than six hours, and you two have already pushed so many buttons, I’m shocked a bomb hasn’t gone off,” Dad calls from the sink, drying the last of the dishes. “God help the men who ever dare to cross either of you.”

“Good riddance to them,” Mom says as she takes the plate from him and stretches to reach the upper cabinet. “Any man stupid enough to stand between a strong woman and her fire has a lesson coming.”

Dad grins. “Believe me, I know that all too well.”

He pulls her in by the waist, suddenly dipping her low like they’re on the dance floor instead of kitchen tile. Her laughter fills the space as her wavy brown hair sweeps the air, her hands clutching at his neck to steady herself.

Even after twenty-five years, they still look at each other with that I-can’t-believe-you’re-real kind of love—the kind you only ever see in movies.

I used to think it was dramatic—the idea of roses on the counter just because, or slow dancing in the light of the refrigerator at two in the morning. It always felt ridiculous. Romanticized.

But not impossible.

Not when you’ve seen it lived—every single day.

They met on a film set in Alberta. Dad was directing his first big-budget movie, completely out of his element, surrounded by wilderness he couldn’t name and equipment he barely understood.

Enter Mom—Allison LeBlanc—the local groundskeeper assigned to keep the overpaid city crew from accidentally wrecking Banff’s pristine beauty .

A few days on the lake, hours of bickering, and late nights under Albertan stars, and Dad was already in free fall.

But Mom didn’t believe in love at first sight.

She made him prove it. Made him earn it.

Long-distance calls. Red-eye flights. Thoughtful dates stitched into stolen weekends.

Eventually, he won her over. And the rest became what we now call the greatest love story ever written.

Happily ever after. Roll credits.

Amie scrunches her nose as they twirl together by the island. Dad dips his fingers in the dishwater and blows the bubbles into the air, watching them float like glittering stars around the room.

When I was younger, I used to cringe too. There’s something unsettling about seeing your parents act like people— romantic people. It’s weird. Awkward. Borderline gross.

But now... I just watch them and hope that someday, maybe, I’ll find something even half as real.

The only thing that finally separates them is a soft knock at the front door. Both of them glance over their shoulders, still breathless with laughter, before Dad reluctantly lets go of Mom and heads for the entryway.

I watch him disappear around the corner, trying to refocus on the movie—but curiosity prickles beneath my skin like a bed of needles.

Who could be knocking at nine in the evening? I wonder

It could be a fan who found Dad’s address online, eager to pitch a script, or maybe a neighbour dropping by for a favour. Probably not a salesman—but then again, some are bold enough to peddle high-speed internet at all hours.

“Hello, fellas, how can I—”

BANG!

The sound tears through the house like a thunderclap, slicing through the air, bouncing off the walls, and rattling the windows .

My ears ring so loudly, the rest of the world cuts to silence. I barely register Mom and Amie screaming until I see their mouths moving.

Amie is the first to react. She scrambles to her feet, Nana’s knit blanket pooling on the floor, and grabs my arm, yanking hard. Her grip leaves crescent-shaped indents on my wrist where her nails dig in deep.

Mom’s voice cuts through the static as she ushers us toward the garage.

“Girls, run!”

I read her lips, but her terror filled eyes are what drives the words into my bones.

She only makes it a few steps before another shot rips through the air.

BANG!

The bullet enters her skull and exits between her hazel eyes, painting the cream carpet and our faces in a fine spray of warm blood.

She collapses in front of us, her expression frozen in shock, her body thudding against the floor with a sickening crack that rattles straight through my spine.

Amie crumples beside her, screaming.

I can’t hear it—everything is still muffled by the ringing in my ears—but I feel it. The sound vibrates in my teeth.

Then come the footsteps.

Two men emerge from the entryway, stepping casually over our mother’s body. One is lean and pale. The other, taller and broader, has tanned skin and heavy footsteps.

I recognize them. They’re the men from the gas station.

They’re not wearing hoodies now. Just fitted black T-shirts and dark jeans. But their faces are hidden behind devil masks—blood red, twisted into wide, grotesque grins.

I grab Amie by the shoulder, yanking her up, ready to run—but I freeze when I see it.

The gun.

The barrel pointed directly at my face.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My body won’t obey me, no matter how loud I scream inside .

“On your knees,” the lean one says.

His voice is cold, unhurried.

My knees give out beneath me, sinking into the blood-spattered carpet that clings to my skin like tar. My heart slams against my ribs, each beat louder than the last.

Beside me, Amie trembles violently, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes—wide and unblinking—are locked on Mom’s lifeless body.

The stockier man kneels behind us and zip-ties our wrists behind our backs. The plastic bites into my skin, but I barely register the pain.

There’s only room for fear.

He looks up at the lean one. “Take your pick.”

A grin spreads beneath the devil mask, reaching the lean one’s icy blue eyes. “I think I want her,” he says, lifting Amie’s chin with two gloved fingers.

She flinches and jerks her head away, but he grabs her jaw roughly, squeezing until her lips tremble in a forced, terrified pout.

“Don’t touch her!” I snarl, the words tearing out of me like shrapnel. “Take whatever you want—just let us go.”

He tilts his head and crouches in front of me, his eyes locking onto mine through the mask.

I don’t blink. I won’t look away.

“I am taking what I want,” he whispers.

Then he turns back to Amie and slams her face into the floor.

“No!” I lunge toward him, my knees dragging across the carpet—but the stock of his gun smashes into my jaw before I make it a foot.

Pain detonates in my head. My vision goes white, then pulses black.

I fall onto my back with a gasp, blood filling my mouth from a split on the inside of my cheek, my limbs numb with shock.

“Feisty,” the stockier one mutters, almost amused as he crouches over me .

He wraps a gloved hand around my throat, pinning me to the carpet. His other hand yanks my shorts and underwear down to my ankles in one quick, violent motion.

I thrash, every muscle in my legs straining to kick him off me. My heel connects—once with his stomach, again with his chest—and for a second, air rushes back into my lungs as he releases my throat.

A tiny, hollow victory.

Then he slams my knees into my chest, his weight crashing down against my thighs. Something cracks—loud and sharp—and the pain that follows steals the breath right out of me.

Ribs. Definitely broken.

I turn my head toward Amie. The lean one has her pinned, pressing a hand into her back as he kneels behind her. She’s frozen. Her eyes—wide and filled with terror—lock on mine.

I try to hold her gaze, to silently promise it’ll be okay, even if the doubt is screaming louder in my head than any words ever could.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes as the stockier one forces himself into me. The pain tears through me like fire—searing, violating.

I clench my jaw, trying to block it out. To float above it. To focus on Amie. On her attacker.

I etch his details into my memory.

Pale skin. Buzzed blonde hair. Icy blue eyes. A bird tattoo—its wings stretched across his collarbones, rising from his sternum like it’s ready to fly.

I will remember him. Every grotesque inch.

He won’t get away with this.

He won’t live another day.

He. Will. Pay.

The lean one grunts, satisfied, as he finishes inside her.

Two minutes. Two minutes too long.

And then—he raises his gun.

My body goes rigid.

“No!” I try to scream, but with broken ribs and a crushed chest, the word barely escapes as a breath, a whisper .

Her eyes find mine—panic, confusion, heartbreak—and then—

BANG!

Her body collapses.

Blood seeps into the cream-coloured carpet. Her hazel eyes turn dull as her life slips away.

The world narrows into a tunnel of white-hot rage.

The lean one rises, tucking himself back into his jeans with mechanical indifference. He motions for his partner to hurry up.

He’s still moving above me.

I lock onto him. His sea-green eyes gleam behind the red devil mask, amused by my pain. Strands of a black ponytail falls over his shoulder as he looks down at me.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

The chant loops in my skull. Not a hope—a promise .

I will kill him.

I will kill them both.

He pulls out and finishes on the backs of my thighs. The warmth it leaves behind makes me nauseous. He steps back, brushing me off like I’m trash.

My ribs stab into my lungs as I gasp for breath, but the air feels too sharp to hold onto.

Then—cold metal presses against my chest, seeping right through my sweatshirt.

His voice is low, almost tender, as he utters his gut-wrenching final words:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

BANG!

My body convulses. My scream never escapes.

Blood floods my throat—thick, hot, suffocating. The metallic taste coats my tongue. My chest burns like it’s on fire.

Pain. Burning. Blood.

So much fucking blood…

Then stillness.

Then nothing.

Quiet… peaceful… nothing.