Page 22 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I SIT IN THE DARK, CROSS-LEGGED ON the bed, my laptop casting cold white light across my face. The door is locked. I’ve kept it that way since Damon left.

Every so often, I hear something out in the hall—distant chatter, footsteps creaking across the hardwood—but no one tries the knob. No one even lingers near the door. As far as I can tell, they’ve left me alone.

For now.

I don’t know if dinner was supposed to be some kind of peace offering, but I’m not ready to break bread with Damon and his crew like we’re one big happy dysfunctional family. Not after today. Not after everything.

Even if my stomach has other opinions.

The last thing I ate was split pea soup, and that was hours ago. My stomach makes a sound like it’s trying to chew through itself.

I should sleep, but I can’t.

Truth is, my sleeping schedule isn’t all that different from theirs.

I’m used to staying up through the night when there’s work to be done—sometimes focus is easier to find in the dark.

I assume at least one of them stays posted at the bar all night, while someone else rotates through Damon’s security network at The King’s Eye.

The kind of coordination it would take makes my head spin when I think about it too long. Especially on an empty stomach.

I’ve been trying to dig into this Lola woman. But between the concrete walls and whatever encrypted firewall Damon’s running, the Wi-Fi here is probably worse than an actual prison cell. I can barely load a YouTube video, let alone run R.O.S.E.

Eventually, I give up.

I shut the laptop and let the room go dark again, thick shadows wrapping around me like a blanket that doesn’t quite keep me warm.

My stomach snarls, as if the darkness has only made it hungrier.

I sit for another full minute, debating the pros and cons, before standing and moving to the door.

I unlock it as quietly as I can, wincing at the soft click it makes.

The hallway beyond is pitch black, but at the far end, pale moonlight filters in from the massive skylights above the living room.

It paints the floor in shards of silver.

I move carefully, each step across the hardwood impossibly loud in the stillness. The furniture that looked so sleek and expensive during the day now blends into the shadows like it’s lying in wait.

The fridge is a glowing beacon in the dark when I open it. The quiet hum breaks the silence, and the harsh light floods the kitchen, stinging my eyes.

Inside, there’s a few boxes of leftover Chinese food. Chicken fried rice. Sweet and sour pork. There are also some essentials—milk, butter, a carton of eggs that’s near empty. Condiments. And, of course, a full drawer of energy drinks and canned sodas.

It’s a chef’s kitchen with the pantry of a college freshman.

I’m halfway through debating which container to grab when a voice slices through the dark behind me.

“Trying to air condition the apartment with the fridge?”

I jump—literally jump —and slam the fridge door shut. The kitchen plunges back into darkness as my spine hits the cold marble of the island behind me. I reach out blindly and rip a knife from the block on the counter—the largest one I can find.

“Who’s there?” I demand, my voice sharper than the blade in my hand .

A low, amused chuckle comes from the living room. Then the lamp clicks on.

Damon .

He’s perched on the edge of the couch, one leg draped over the other, a glass of something dark in his hand.

“You know, this is my apartment,” he says dryly.

My pulse is still hammering in my throat, but I lower the knife—slowly. I don’t put it down though.

“Do you always sit around in the dark at...” I glance at the clock on the oven. “ Four in the morning?”

“Only when I’m feeling particularly dark and brooding,” he says, sipping from his glass. His eyes gleam faintly in the lamplight. “You’re hungry, I presume?”

I don’t answer, but he stands, moving toward me.

Somehow, the dim light behind him only makes him more intimidating—his silhouette sharp and commanding, all clean lines and controlled power. It’s the kind of presence that makes you feel like prey, even when you’re not being hunted.

Then again, Damon always seems to be hunting.

I instinctively step back, pressing my hip into the island.

But he doesn’t touch me.

He steps past me instead, opening the fridge again. This time, the light spills across his face, revealing something softer in his eyes. He looks tired—not worn down, exactly, but like he’s been thinking too much and sleeping too little.

“There’s chicken fried rice and sweet and sour pork left over from dinner,” he says, nodding toward the containers. “Chavez ate all the fortune cookies though.”

I set the knife down on the counter, fingers still twitching from the lingering adrenaline.

“Is it weird that doesn’t surprise me?” I mutter, trying to ground myself again. “Considering I only met him today.”

Damon huffs a soft breath—something almost like a laugh.

“You can take whatever you want,” he says, stepping aside and giving me full access to the fridge .

There’s something unusually generous in the way he says it. Not in the offer itself—but in the way he moves out of the way.

He doesn’t crowd me.

He lets me make the choice on my own.

And I don’t know why, but that feels more dangerous than the knife I just put down.

I reach into the fridge and grab both containers of takeout. Before the door can swing shut, Damon reaches past me and flicks on a soft, ambient light beneath the cabinets. It casts a low, golden glow across the counters and floor—just enough to see, not enough to chase away the shadows.

“Any chance ‘whatever I want’ extends to a decent internet connection?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I did hack into his network, after all.

“Working while on vacation, little rose ?” he drawls.

I roll my eyes, shoving the containers into the microwave. “This isn’t a vacation,” I mutter. “And besides... wouldn’t it be faster to track down Lola if I helped?”

I don’t hear him approach, but I feel it. His presence creeps in like static—pulling goosebumps to the surface of my skin.

Then his voice rumbles from his chest, low and close behind me. “Had you joined us for dinner, you’d know we already found her.”

I spin on my heels and end up nearly nose to nose with him. I didn’t realize he was standing so close to me. My breath catches as I instinctively step back, needing the space.

“You found her?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

He nods. “She’s running business out of a club downtown. High-end. Private. Women-only access. Men only get in if a woman brings them.”

A smirk curls on my lips. “Sounds like a problem for you and your boys,” I say. “Shame there isn’t a woman here who might help.”

His brow rises. “I assumed you’d be interested, considering it involves you. ”

I shrug. “Why help you when I could just go see her myself?” I ask sweetly. “We both know I can handle it.”

His eyes darken—no longer sharp, but shadowed. Dangerous.

“You really think I’m letting you out of my sight after what happened earlier?” he murmurs, stepping closer. He brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, twirling it once around his finger before letting it fall.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” I say. But the words come out quiet. Small. Even I don’t believe them.

Damon hears the lie too.

His hand moves fast, cupping my jaw and tipping my face up toward his. His grip is firm, but careful. His palm is surprisingly warm against my skin. He lifts me just enough by my neck that I have to shift onto my toes, our mouths only a breath apart.

For a split second, I don’t know if he’s going to kiss me... or tear into me with every jagged edge he’s been holding back.

“You may be good at what you do, Brie,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp. “But this world? It isn’t yours. It’s mine . You got dragged into it chasing blood—and once that blood dries, you won’t be able to find the way back.”

His gaze softens—just enough to strip me of any response I might’ve had, if his touch hadn’t already scrambled every thought in my head.

“Revenge brought you here. But even after you find what you’re looking for... the only one who can get you back out is me.”

Something twists in my stomach.

He seems concerned about me—but that doesn’t make sense. He’s Damon King. He’s supposed to be someone I can’t trust. He’s not supposed to care. He used to be a Songbird.

But now… he’s not.

Now, he helps women and children escape bad situations. And maybe what I’m in doesn’t look like much compared to theirs, but it still puts my life at risk just the same.

My voice trembles, but I ask anyway.

“Why do you care if I make it out? ”

He doesn’t answer at first. His eyes drag over the curve of my mouth, my jaw, my throat. Every inch he memorizes sends prickles down my spine.

Then, finally, he says it.

“You remind me of someone I failed.”

His voice is raw—quiet in a way that sounds unpracticed. There’s no smugness. No armour. Just regret.

“And I’d really rather not relive those mistakes with you.”

He releases me, and I drop back onto my heels. The space between us chills instantly, colder than the tile beneath my feet.

I should walk away.

I should pretend his words didn’t affect me. Pretend I don’t want to know who she was. What he lost. How that failure shaped the man standing in front of me now.

Because I can’t afford to get pulled into his storm.

But the storm that is Damon King might be the only thing fierce enough to lead me straight to my target—and help me burn him to the ground.

So I square my shoulders.

“We’ll work together,” I say. “I’ll get you into the club. We’ll talk to Lola, find out who hired her. And in return, you help me take down whoever decided to make me their scapegoat.”

My voice lowers as I pin him with the same stare that’s made hardened Songbirds crumble—begging for mercy they never got.

“And when this is over, we go our separate ways.”

Damon studies me for a long moment. His expression is blank—but not unreadable. I can see the hesitation. The war behind his eyes.

Until finally, he nods.

“Deal.”