Page 20 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

“I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice,” he says, one thick brow arched in amusement.

I mirror the look right back at him. “I was born and raised in New York.”

“Ah.” He nods sagely, like that answers everything. “Makes sense. New Yorkers are all assholes.”

My lips twitch. “Isn’t your boss a New Yorker too?”

“You’ve met him,” he says with a smirk. “Telling me I’m wrong?”

This time, I actually smile. It’s small, but real.

“Point proven.”

I lean back on my palms, letting the tension settle just a little. “I take it you’re not from here, then?”

“Nah,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “Born in Florida. Moved around a lot whenever my dad found a new ‘business opportunity’ . Eventually landed here, where Damon caught wind of what he was up to. The beatings. The scams. The way he treated my mom and me. Damon stepped in—and the rest is history.”

I blink.

I wasn’t expecting him to be so… open .

There’s something heavy in my chest as I picture it. A kid like him, being dragged from place to place, never knowing if the next stop was better or worse.

Meanwhile, I can’t even say the word was about my own family without feeling like I’m going to shatter.

“Damon got you out?” I ask, quieter this time.

He nods. “Set my mom up near her sister back in Florida. Got her out of reach. She was the first person he helped using King’s Eye. He’s helped a lot more since.”

There’s pride in his voice. Clear admiration.

It tightens something inside me.

It’s not that I don’t see it. Damon’s loyalty is obvious—so is the way his people look at him like he’s more than a man. Like he’s the undeniable force that rewrote their lives.

But I’ve seen what the Songbirds do for money. I’ve seen the wreckage they leave behind. And Damon King was one of them longer than he’s been anything else .

I don’t care what kind of penthouse he has. I don’t care how many people he’s helped. I’m not here to admire him.

I’m here to survive him —until I get what I need.

Maybe even a little more than I need.

The elevator dings just as that thought finishes forming, followed by a brash Russian accent that ricochets down the hallway.

“Chavez?” the woman calls. “Damon says he has a little rose that needs fixing—he knows I’m a nurse not a florist, right?”

“In here, Dahlia,” Chavez calls, waving her over from the doorway.

At first, I expect some kind of rugged medic—someone used to being called in for quick and messy damage control. A few stitches, some painkillers, and her work is done.

Instead, I’m met with a goddamn model .

She rounds the corner in powder-blue scrubs and spotless white sneakers, her platinum blonde hair yanked into a tight sock bun that shows off every sculpted inch of her high cheekbones.

Her porcelain skin and light grey eyes practically glow under the dim hallway lights.

Her features are so symmetrical, it makes me wonder if she was actually born or if she was built in a lab.

A laminated badge swings from her pocket, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital .

The room’s atmosphere shifts slightly, like the air’s gone too thin to breathe.

It’s the same hospital where I had my surgery. The same place I was wheeled into after my chest was torn open, ribs cracked, heart stopped.

I don’t recognize her.

But she might recognize me .

Everyone there knew. Even when I was sedated, I could feel them hovering outside my room—nurses whispering in the hallway, interns craning their necks to sneak a glimpse of the miracle girl who survived a bullet through the heart.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to wake up .

Dahlia doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

If she recognizes me, she doesn’t say a word.

She turns to Chavez, and he straightens under her gaze like a soldier under inspection.

“I’ll take good care of her,” she says gently. “Please give us some privacy.”

Chavez looks dazed for a moment, like he only just remembered he and Dahlia aren’t standing there alone. She lifts a single brow, and it snaps him out of it—he blinks hard, the tips of his ears turning faintly red as he nods and retreats without another word.

The door clicks shut, and Dahlia just sighs like she’s used to leaving men speechless—who am I kidding, of course she is.

She turns to me, clasping her hands. “Hello, my name is Dahlia,” she says smoothly, her voice all calm professionalism. “I assume your name is not actually little rose , correct?”

“It’s Brie,” I say, hugging my arms across my chest. “And I already told Damon I’m fine. It’s just a little burn.”

Dahlia tilts her head and offers a warm, practiced smile. “May I take a look anyway? Just for my own peace of mind.”

Her tone is gentle but has an authoritative edge. The kind that doesn’t leave room for argument without sounding like you’re the unreasonable one.

I sigh, then nod reluctantly. I rise to my feet and ease my leggings down my hips, biting down on my lip as the fabric scrapes over the burn. I’m still crusted in dried blood and gunpowder, and now that I’m looking, the skin is definitely more inflamed than I’d let myself believe.

Dahlia makes a soft tsk sound as she crouches, examining my thigh with gentle fingers. “It’s not too bad, but it needs a proper cleaning. Come with me to the tub and I’ll help flush it out before we wrap it up.”

“I can bathe myself,” I say quickly—too quickly.

“Of course,” Dahlia nods without missing a beat. “If that makes you more comfortable. ”

I don’t respond. Just move stiffly to my suitcase, trying to shake the heat crawling up my neck. I unzip the top and spread out the mess Damon dumped inside earlier. Most of it’s in a jumbled towel bundle, but I manage to pick out my shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from the chaos.

An old orange pill bottle rolls toward Dahlia—painkillers, left over from my heart surgery. She picks it up, glancing at the label before gently setting it back down like it’s something fragile.

I pretend not to notice.

Grabbing what I need, I slip into the bathroom and shut the door faster than I mean to. My fingers twist the lock tight.

The moment I’m alone, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and turn toward the room.

It’s massive .

Too massive. Like a five-star spa dropped into the middle of an apartment.

A wall-length counter stretches along the left side, two bronze-rimmed sinks embedded in glossy black marble. The mirror above it spans the length of the wall, throwing my own pale, blood-streaked reflection back at me.

The shower is sleek and modern, but it’s the bathtub that steals my attention.

Positioned directly across from the door, it’s oversized, sunken into the floor like a private oasis.

Deep enough to drown in. The kind of tub you could disappear into for hours, heat sinking into your bones, softening everything sharp edge inside you.

My throat tightens.

Don’t get comfortable ,

I silently remind myself.

I scrub my body clean in the shower instead. Fast and efficient. I watch the water swirl pink at my feet, disappearing down the drain over and over until it runs clear.

The burn is worse than I thought. Angry and red, with a fine split near the top where the skin likely tore. Not serious, but definitely not as fine as I claimed it to be.

When I shut off the water and step onto the mat, a knock startles me. “Brie?” Dahlia’s voice floats through the door. “ May I come in? It’s best to treat the burn while it’s freshly cleaned.”

“Um, just a second!”

I fumble for something to cover myself with. My heart spikes as my eyes dart around, landing on a robe hung neatly by the tub. It’s soft, black, and stupidly thin—silk, probably—but it’ll have to do.

I tug it on and clutch it tightly to my chest. The fabric clings to my damp skin, highlighting every curve and dip. I ignore the way my fingers tremble as I tie the sash.

“Okay… come in.”

The door opens slowly, Dahlia entering with practiced caution, like I’m a feral thing she doesn’t want to spook.

She says nothing about the robe or the anxious look on my face.

“Lift your foot onto the tub’s edge for me,” she instructs.

I do as told, bracing myself against the marble tile. She kneels before me, her cool hands applying a gel-like ointment that immediately stings—sharp, biting—before the burn cools and the pain ebbs away. She wraps it in a light, breathable bandage, her fingers sure and delicate.

The silence is heavy, but not suffocating.

She doesn’t prod. Doesn’t pity. Just works.

She reminds me of my mom, in a strange way—back when she used to help bandage scraped knees or trim my bangs in the kitchen. Gentle but competent. The kind of presence that makes you feel like maybe things will be okay, even if just for a minute.

“How did you end up working for Damon?” I ask, the question spilling from my lips before I can stop it.

Dahlia glances up from where she’s securing the last piece of the wrap and smirks. “I don’t work for Damon,” she says, shaking her head lightly. “He calls me in for favours like this, and in return, I call him whenever I require his services.”

“His services?” I echo, raising a brow.

She meets my gaze evenly, head tilting. “I’m a trauma nurse.

You’d be surprised how many women come into the ER with black eyes, cracked ribs, broken jaws—always with the same excuse.

‘I fell down the stairs.’ ‘Walked into a door.’ But sometimes.

.. all it takes is someone like Damon to give them hope.

A connection. A reason to believe they can get out. ”

My shoulders sag, the tension draining from them slowly, reluctantly.

It feels like everyone around him is trying to sell me the same thing: that Damon King is more than the shadow of the man he used to be. That his hands, once stained with violence, now build ladders instead of walls.

Maybe I’m starting to believe them.

But that doesn’t matter.

I’m not one of those women. I’m not looking for escape. I’m not someone who needs to be saved.

I’m here for vengeance. Not hope.

“How often should I change this bandage?” I ask, steering the conversation away from him.

“Leave it for a day to let the medicine absorb,” she replies. “When you shower next, you can remove it—just try not to wear anything too tight around it for a while.”

It’s familiar advice. Almost identical to what I was told last time—after the surgery that changed my life and split my body open like a book.

I nod so she knows I understand.

“I have something else for you,” she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a small bottle and hands it to me.

Advanced Scar Gel.

I stare at the label, unsure how to feel.

“You think it’ll scar?” I ask, quieter than before.

“Not likely,” she says. “But... I saw the other creams you’ve tried. This one’s better. Works well on both new and old scars.”

My lips press into a thin line. I glance up at her.

Her expression doesn’t change. Still calm. Still kind.

But she knows. I know she knows.

“You know who I am,” I murmur. I don’t even bother to phrase it as a question .

Her smile falters just slightly, and she nods. “I had a hunch when you told me your name.”

I feel like the floor’s tilting again.

“I sat in the viewing room,” she continues gently. “During your surgery. There were... whispers. Some true. Some not.”

My chest tightens, breath catching painfully in my throat. “I’d really rather not talk about it,” I say, my voice shaking slightly.

She raises her hands in surrender. “And you don’t have to. It’s your story. Not mine. But...” her voice softens even further, “as a nurse, I do feel obligated to ask—are they healing okay?”

I hesitate. Then shrug.

“They’re healed... fine, I guess.” I glance down. “They’re just ugly scars now.”

Dahlia nods once. No pity in her gaze, just calm understanding.

“ Reminders. ”

She says the word like it holds weight. Like it matters.

It hits me harder than I expect.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

She reaches out and places her hand gently over mine. Her skin is cool, her grip light—but steady.

“You may never get rid of them entirely,” she says. “But the memory... it’ll heal faster if you learn to see them as proof of your strength instead of a mark of shame.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

My throat tightens. I nod, but I can feel the pressure building in my chest, threatening to rise—to escape.

“If you ever need me to take a look at them,” she adds softly, “or for any other reason... just call.”

I follow her out of the bathroom, keeping quiet while she gathers her things. The silence stretches—heavy, but safe.

When the door opens, I hear Chavez’s voice down the hall. Dahlia steps out and says, “She’s going to rest now. Please don’t disturb her.”

It’s the kindness in her tone that undoes me.

Not the command— the care.

The dam cracks. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back.

It’s been a long time since anyone’s looked past the thorns and seen me . The girl beneath the mask. The one with the chest full of scars and fists full of grief.

And I know—without question—that Dahlia won’t say a word. She won’t tell Chavez. She won’t tell Damon.

She won’t give them any reason to believe I’m not strong.

Which makes her the first person I’ve felt like I could trust since my entire life fell apart.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.