Page 24 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

But instead, she steps back into us, looping an arm around each of ours. Her perfume wafts into my face from the gentle breeze. When she speaks, her voice is as smooth and luxurious as warm honey.

“Yes,” she says, lifting her gaze to the bouncer with a coy smile. “They’re both with me. I hope bringing two isn’t a problem... I just couldn’t choose between them.”

Her fingers graze the inside of my elbow. Light. Measured. Practiced. I don’t know whether I should feel turned on by her or jealous that she’s doing the same to Connor.

Who am I kidding? I’m definitely turned on.

But it works.

The bouncer gives us another once-over, sizing us up like he’s calculating how much trouble we’re worth. Then he exhales through his nose and opens the door .

“Enjoy your night,” he says gruffly.

We step inside, swallowed by the dim, pulsing atmosphere.

After checking our coats, we pass through the metal detector. It’s sleek, non-invasive, and too damn effective—one of those high-end models that doesn’t just beep but produces a full body scan. Sharp enough to pick up a paperclip tucked into a pocket.

So naturally, we’re stripped of anything that might’ve made me feel marginally more secure.

Beyond the checkpoint, a velvet curtain sways open. We step through, and the world shifts.

Blush lives and breathes sensuality. Low-lit and saturated in reds, pinks, and soft ambers, it wraps around us like silk—thick with perfume, heat, and the pulse of bass-heavy music.

A wall-length bar stretches along the left side, its mirrored backsplash reflecting the ambient light, giving the illusion of infinite depth.

Velvet couches line the perimeter in semi-private little nests.

The dance floor spreads out under a halo of strobes and LED haze, all watched from above by a DJ booth raised like a throne.

It’s a club made for women. That much is obvious.

Every detail—from the concept to the layout and lighting—has been curated for the female gaze.

The few men that’ve been let inside aren’t prowling.

They linger near the women who brought them like quiet, unthreatening accessories to the night.

It’s meant to be a sanctuary—safer than a nightclub, softer than a bar.

It’s the kind of place I’d normally admire for just existing.

But tonight, that admiration is buried beneath something sharper.

Because we’re not here for drinks and dancing.

We’re here for Lola.

“I can see the back rooms Lee mentioned,” Connor murmurs, dipping his head toward Brie so she can hear him over the beat. He nods toward a curtain at the far end—flanked by another bouncer in a black suit .

Brie follows his line of sight, her eyes narrowing. “We’ll have to split up,” she says. “If all three of us approach, it’ll raise flags.”

“She’s right,” I say.

In most cases, I’d tell Connor to stay on lookout while I try to talk my way in. But every muscle in my body is telling me not to let Brie out of my sight.

“Con, you try your luck. Lola knows me. Odds are she won’t let me anywhere near her, considering the situation.”

It’s not a lie.

Lola and I have crossed paths before. Briefly. There’s no bad blood between us personally—but she’s the type who’d throw anyone under the bus if the price is right.

And right now, I doubt she’ll welcome me with open arms. Not when she’s already sold her services to whoever tried to use Brie as a pawn.

Connor doesn’t argue. He simply adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and slips into the crowd, projecting charm like it’s cologne.

Brie starts to move too, angling toward the bar—but I catch her wrist, pulling her back against me.

“Where are you going?” I ask, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She doesn’t even flinch, like she was already expecting it from me. “We have to wait for Connor,” she replies coolly. “Might as well grab a drink while we’re at it.”

“You do remember that this is a job, right?”

She rolls her eyes before she turns to me, her breath warm as it mixes with mine.

“Yes, Damon. I remember .”

Damon . The way she says my name sounds like a dare—like she wants to see just how far she can stretch my patience. It makes my cock jump and strain against my zipper.

“I’ve taken down plenty of people with a single drink in my system. Don’t worry. I won’t be sloppy.”

She moves again, and this time, I let her go.

But only long enough for me to follow .

At the bar, she glances at the specialties for only a split second before she orders a cocktail called Pussy Power.

It’s fitting, to say the least.

The bartender sets a pink drink in front of her, the light catching the swirl of edible glitter inside. A lime wedge clings to the rim.

Her lips wrap around the straw as she takes a slow sip, her throat working with a swallow that has no right being that fucking hypnotic —and yet...

Then comes the quick swipe of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving a constellation of tiny sparkles in her lipstick.

It’s not an accident. It’s choreography.

“Are you going to order yourself a drink,” she asks, turning toward me with that slow, knowing smile, “or are you just going to sit there and stare?”

I rest my elbow on the bar and lean in. “I’m just curious,” I say.

“I’ve met plenty of people like you—bounty hunters, I mean.

Tracking down a gang member is easy with the right connections.

But getting close enough to convince them to break from the herd?

That takes something else. I guess I’m just wondering how you manage it. ”

Brie tilts her head, rolling my words around like a marble in her mouth. “I’m not a bounty hunter,” she says. “I’m not doing this for money.”

“Bounty doesn’t always mean cash,” I reply. “You’re after information. That’s still payment—even if you’re the only one who benefits.”

She shrugs noncommittally.

Then she takes another sip. The glass sparkles just like her lips.

She swivels on the barstool, crossing one leg over the other. The dress slides effortlessly, exposing the line of her thigh all the way up to her hip. It’s a stretch of bare skin designed to distract.

My gaze drags along it like I’m tethered to her.

When her knees shift toward me, I look up—and her eyes catch mine like a snare .

It’s not the same angry blaze I’m used to from her. It’s softer. A flame that seems safe to touch, even though deep down, you know it’ll still burn all the same.

“Tell me, Damon,” she says, her voice low but impossibly clear—like the music bends around her. “What do you think people see when they look at me?”

A question like that is like a tripwire.

I should know better than to step into it, but I’m already caught—hook, line, and fucking sinker—as she sets her drink aside and leans in, fingers grazing the fabric of my dress shirt.

She drags them slow—over my forearm, to the edge of my cuff—hooking the cotton just enough to slide her fingertip against my wrist. Bare skin to bare skin.

My pulse kicks like a goddamn war drum.

“What do you see when you look at me?” she asks, hazel eyes molten and steady, drilling straight into mine.

I swallow hard, but her breath is already tangled with mine—orange, lime, tequila. Her cocktail and her body heat wrap around me until I can’t tell what’s making my head spin.

“A stunning woman,” I manage, barely. “One that’s hiding devil horns in her hair.”

She smiles—and fuck, it’s not coy. It’s victorious .

“Possibly,” she says. “But it was a trick question.”

Her palm drifts up, her thumb grazing my cheekbone in a slow, reverent stroke. The touch is too gentle. Like she’s testing how much of me she could melt before I realize how close she’s holding the fire.

“I study them,” she murmurs. “Not just what they’ve done, but what they want. Their habits. Their types. Before I ever leave my apartment, I’ve already become the fantasy they’ve been chasing.”

She leans in closer—so close her lips nearly brush mine, glitter and gloss catching the light.

“I can be whoever they want me to be,” she whispers. “That’s how I do it.”

Then she slaps me .

Not hard—just a sharp little sting across my cheek that’s more playful than punishing—but it ignites something feral in my chest.

She starts to pull away, grinning like a devil, but I catch her wrist mid-flight and keep her close.

My grip is firm, but not cruel. I drag her hand to my mouth and bite the heel of her palm—just enough to mark her—then I kiss the same spot like a promise.

“It’s a dangerous game, little rose,” I murmur against her skin.

She glances down at the imprint I’ve left and smiles.

“I may not make all the rules,” she breathes, “but I can see all the cards. I make the decisions.”

“Is that so?”

I yank her closer, until she stumbles off her stool and into me.

She twists her body at the last second so her shoulder hits my chest instead of her breasts, but it doesn’t stop me from sliding an arm around her and pinning her back against me.

My palm wraps around her throat—firm, careful. Her pulse flutters beneath my thumb, quickening as it hits her that I have no intention of letting her go.

She presses her hands into my thighs like she’s trying to push me away—but her nails curl in instead, a silent dare for me to keep going. To challenge her.

My other hand snakes firmly around her waist, anchoring her in place.

I press hot, wet kisses down the slope of her shoulder, letting my teeth graze her skin as I make my way to the hollow of her throat.

She smells like a garden in a thunderstorm—floral, fresh, and laced with something electrifying.

By the time I reach the shell of her ear, her breath is hitching in shallow gasps. She’s melting under my touch—and she hates it.

I bite the skin just below her lobe and feel her tremble.

“Tell me, little rose,” I rasp, “was all of this your decision?”

She exhales a long breath like a confession .

“What if I said yes?”

I tighten my hold on her neck just enough to make it uncomfortable—just enough to make sure she knows that right now, in this moment, I own her.

She whimpers, soft and broken, her breath catching like it’s caught on barbed wire. And the sound nearly undoes me.

“I’d say you’re a liar,” I murmur. “And you know what I do to liars… don’t you?”

Her body answers before her mouth does. A tremor rolls down her spine—sharp and involuntary—and with her back pressed flush against me, I feel every nuance of it.

I push her chin up, forcing her gaze back to mine.

And there she is.

Not the mask. Not the seductress. But the fire.

Flushed cheeks. Wide pupils. Bottom lip caught between her teeth.

She looks at me like I’m both her salvation and her ruin.

And maybe I am.

“What would you do, Damon?” she whispers.

My name drips from her lips like honey poured over a razor blade.

Sweet. Addicting. Deadly .

And even if just a taste of her could kill me, I’d gladly die with her poison on my lips.

I open my mouth, ready to spill every filthy thought currently chewing through my brain—ready to tell her exactly what I’d do to her. How I’d make her beg. How I wouldn’t stop until she was hoarse from saying my name—

But then I catch sight of Connor, cutting through the crowd like a shark in dark, treacherous water.

He’s not exactly subtle in a place like this—tall, built, and dressed like he could buy the place twice over—but the scowl he’s wearing says enough.

His luck’s been shit.

Brie slips from my grip like smoke through my fingers.

Her absence punches a hollow space across my lap as she clambers back onto her stool, swiping up the drink she left behind and downing what’s left like it’s holy water that might keep me away.

Her tongue darts out to catch the final shimmer of glitter clinging to her bottom lip, and I watch it disappear like a goddamn love-drunk fool.

“Let me guess,” I say, not even waiting for Connor to speak. “Lola won’t see you.”

He huffs. “Says she’s full up on clients. Doesn’t need more.”

His eyes flick between me and Brie like he’s realizing he walked into a scene he shouldn’t have. He's right—but he’s too smart to say it out loud.

Brie doesn’t look at either of us. She sets the glass down slowly, like her mind’s already miles ahead. That look in her eyes—razor-sharp, ice-cold focus—tells me exactly what she’s thinking.

It's the same thought that just sank its claws into me, too.

“Maybe she’ll see me,” she says, more to herself than to us.

“Technically, you’re already a client,” I add, watching the spark behind her eyes catch and burn.

Connor nods slowly. “You might be right. It’s worth a shot if nothing else.”

Brie straightens her spine and slides off the barstool with a kind of graceful finality—like a blade being unsheathed. Whatever vulnerability there was before is gone now, locked behind steel and calculation. She’s donned her armour again.

Gone is the girl who trembled when I touched her throat.

In her place stands The Black Rose.

She wants answers, just like me—and she’s not going to leave here without them.

“Are you two just gonna stand there,” she says coolly, glancing between us, “or are we gonna meet this bitch?”

Connor looks over at me with a mix of amusement and vague horror. He’s thinking the same thing I am.

Putting Brie and Lola in the same room is the worst fucking idea we’ve ever had.

But maybe also the best.

Because if this goes sideways, there’s not a doubt in my mind—Brie will be the one walking out alive.

And god help anyone who gets in her way.