Page 25 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I ’VE BEEN HUNTING S ONGBIRDS FOR MONTHS now, and I’ve killed more than my fair share. Meeting this Lola DuBois person and extracting information shouldn’t be any different.

And yet, as we walk through Blush toward the back rooms, uneasiness coils beneath my skin.

I’ve done my research, and Lola is what the underground likes to call an independent contractor—a euphemism for someone too dangerous to belong to anyone.

Her name circulates through New York like smoke—always slipping through fingers, never quite pinned down.

The woman can get any job done so long as the paycheck outweighs the moral cost.

She doesn’t do loyalty. One week she’s working for the Songbirds, and the next she’s helping dismantle their operations brick by bloody brick. It’s not about sides. It’s about the purse.

And it's earned her a fitting nickname: The Snake.

People don’t like her. They fear her. She’s a venomous creature disguised in lipstick and stilettos. Even the biggest dogs tuck tail at the sound of her hiss.

And I’m the prey that somehow slipped past her fangs.

She’s the one who hired Calvin—the bounty hunter I turned into wall paint in that hotel suite. I imagine blowing off his head shaved a chunk off her payday.

I’m hoping she doesn’t hold a grudge.

The guard posted outside her den sizes me up as we approach him. His gaze flicks behind me, landing on the two shadows I brought with me—Connor, all quiet menace, and Damon, radiating unspoken violence.

“I already told you,” the guard grunts, puffing out his chest like a wolfdog trying to impress its handler, “Ms. DuBois isn’t taking in new clients. Don’t make me repeat myself a third time.”

I stop directly in front of him and lift my chin. I won’t be intimidated—not by hired muscle playing gatekeeper for a woman who’d rather have my head on a spike.

“I am one of her clients,” I say coolly, injecting each syllable with calm authority. “Tell her The Black Rose is here to meet with her.”

The name lands like a bullet. His eyes crawl down my body, then back up. Slowly. He has the look of a man trying to figure out if I’m bluffing—or if he just stepped into something far above his pay grade.

“You?” he snorts.

My smile holds no amusement. “Yes. Me—and my associates.” I angle my chin toward the men looming behind me. “Now let me in. Unless you’d prefer to waste Ms. DuBois’ time with your poor judgment.”

His lips curl into a sneer, but he disappears through the thick wooden door behind him, slipping behind a sweep of red velvet pinned to the wall. It sways gently in his wake like a curtain in a theatre just waiting to reveal the star of the show.

When he returns, his whole posture has changed. Stiffer. Tighter. His jaw is clenched hard enough to crack.

“Please, go ahead,” he mutters, holding the door open with one foot, his eyes fixed anywhere but on me.

I give him a curt nod and stride forward without hesitation. The air beyond the curtain changes immediately—warmer, thicker, laced with smoke and a hint of black cherry.

The back room isn’t large—maybe it would be, if it weren’t drowning in swaths of fabric.

Red, orange, and pink silks drape the walls and ceiling, closing in the space like a womb.

A low velvet couch curves along the far side like a snake coiled in on itself.

And at its center, sprawled like royalty, is Lola DuBois—flanked by two hulking men who look more like ornamental lovers than the guards I’m certain they are.

If the devil wore lipstick, this would be her.

Fiery red curls spill over one bare shoulder, and her crimson dress clings like it was sewn straight onto her body. She lounges with the ease of a woman who owns every inch of the room—one man running his fingers through her hair, the other massaging her calves with practiced reverence.

Her emerald eyes, sharp and feline, flick lazily over us as we enter. Then, like a queen waking from a dream, she rises, slow and languid, each movement fluid without disrupting the men wrapped around her.

“What a surprise,” she purrs, her voice rich as red wine and just as likely to stain. “Usually when you let a mouse go, it doesn’t come running back.”

I cross my arms, anchoring a snarl behind my teeth before it can escape. “I didn’t realize letting me go involved sending a bounty hunter to collect me,” I snap.

She sighs, casting a glance at her nails like the whole conversation is beneath her. Blood-red polish gleams at each tip. “It’s just business, darling,” she says, like that absolves her of everything. “Though you have been a thorn in mine.”

“We want to know who hired you, Lola,” Damon growls from beside me, his voice low and tight, like a noose ready to snap. His glare is locked on her, sharp enough to cut through all the silk in the room.

Lola doesn’t flinch. She just rolls her eyes like he’s the one being dramatic. “Straight past the niceties, as always, Damon. Don’t you ever stop working?”

“Do you?” he shoots back, his voice flat and dangerous.

Her smile curls slowly, never quite reaching her eyes. “Never,” she says, crossing one leg over the other and lacing her fingers around her raised knee like we’re chatting over tea.

“I can offer you what I know,” she continues, her tone light. “But it’ll cost you.”

Connor grunts beside me, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course it will. ”

His patience is hanging by a thread. And honestly? So is mine.

“I’m not paying unless the information is worth something,” Damon says, each word sharp as steel.

Lola’s brows lift in challenge. “It seemed worth it to The Black Rose,” she purrs, dragging her gaze to me like she’s peeling back my skin with her eyes. “Why don’t we ask her what my information is worth?”

My spine stiffens. The room presses in close.

She’s talking about the photo.

The man still hiding in the shadows. The one whose hands are still covered in Amie’s blood. The Songbird I’ve been clawing through hell to find.

She sent me that photo—grainy, clipped from a surveillance feed to strategically hide his face—but it was him. I know it was him.

I still have the image saved in three encrypted drives, but I need more. I need to see his face if I’m going to track him down. Hell, a name would even suffice at this point.

“How do I know you actually have what I’m looking for?” I ask, arms tightening across my chest. “If someone else hired you, who’s to say they gave you anything beyond what I’ve already seen?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Lola’s smile lingers, but her eyes narrow—sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m afraid this one’s going to require a little faith on all sides.”

Faith . Not exactly my strong suit.

I flick a glance toward Damon.

He’s already watching me.

But his eyes don’t just rest—they scan, measure, read my reactions. Like he’s trying to find the secrets buried under my skin, etched into my bones.

Like he’s trying to see just how badly I need this—and whether it’ll break me if it turns out to be nothing.

I inhale through my nose, slow and steady.

“Name your price,” I say, turning back to Lola. “And I’ll tell you if it’s worth it. ”

Her gaze slides past me to Damon, the seductive mask slipping off like a silk robe.

“Protection,” she says.

Damon’s eyes narrow. “From what?”

“From the person who hired me.” Her voice has shed its charm as her eyes flick back to me. “The one who’s after you.”

The words hit like shrapnel.

Damon’s brow ticks up, and I can see the tension roll through his shoulders before he buries it beneath a slow, mocking smirk. “A snake is asking a coyote for help?”

Lola doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. “Do we have a deal, or not?”

The silence that follows is short—but not empty. Damon and Connor exchange a glance, something unspoken ricocheting between them. Strategy. Contingency. Memory.

Then Damon nods. “Deal.”

And just like that, something shifts.

It’s subtle, but I feel it—like a pressure valve releasing. An invisible weight lifts off Lola’s shoulders. Her poise doesn’t crack, but it softens. And I don’t miss the way her two guards stiffen slightly, like they hadn’t been told she’d ever need help from anyone but them.

She already has security. Already has men. Already has a room guarded like a silk-draped vault. But she feels like she needs more.

So what does that say about the person who hired her?

Whoever it is… they scare her.

And that scares me.

“I don’t know the name or identity of the person who hired me to contact The Black Rose,” Lola begins. Her voice is still smooth, but now it carries weight behind it. “We communicated strictly over text. A burner number. No voice calls. Nothing traceable.”

She pauses just long enough to let the implications settle—how easy it is for someone to hide in this world. To pull all the strings and still leave no trace.

“I didn’t think much of it at first,” she continues. “Especially when he offered me a fat lump sum for such a simple job. All I had to do was send her the picture and tell her to gather intel on you.”

She nods toward me, and for the first time, there’s something... not quite apologetic in her eyes, but close. A subtle tilt of the scales.

Then she lifts her hand, elegant fingers curling slightly. One of her guards steps forward. He opens his jacket to reveal an absurd collection of burner phones clipped inside the lining. He selects one and hands it to her, which she immediately passes to Damon.

“This is the one we used,” she says. “You can see for yourself—I’m not lying.” Her gaze flicks to me again. “The other photos he sent are in there, too. Before you ask.”

Damon powers it on, and I instinctively lean in closer to get a better view. Our shoulders brush. His body heat wraps around me, and for a second, I forget we’re not alone.

But Lola stands suddenly, her voice slicing between us like a blade, pushing us apart.

“Not here,” she says sharply. “Do it somewhere safe. As much as I hate to admit it, this place isn’t what it used to be. Not since he came in contact.”