Page 26 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon gives her a tight nod before slipping the phone into his pocket. “Connor,” he says, without missing a beat, “have Monroe come by tomorrow with cameras. We’ll lock this place down first, then wherever you’re currently staying.”

Lola’s expression flickers at the name. Her eyes soften—wistful, almost—but she recovers fast.

“Tell him he can come tonight if he wants,” she says lightly, but there’s a flutter behind her voice. “I’ll be here. Waiting.”

“I’m sure you will,” Damon replies, voice flat as ever. “We’ll be in touch, Lola. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“For once,” Connor mutters, earning twin death glares from Lola’s guards.

“A pleasure, as always, boys,” she hums, her smirk returning .

Then she turns to me. “And it’s nice to put a face to the title, Black Rose. I do hope next time, it’s under more... fruitful circumstances.”

I don’t respond.

I don’t really know what to say.

Strangely, I’m not as furious with her as I thought I’d be.

She sent Calvin after me. Tried to manipulate me. But in the end, she’s just another piece in someone else’s game—just like me. She took a job. She executed it. And now she’s trying to survive the fallout.

She and I? We survive in the same way. Take the jobs that pay. Stitch together control from whatever sharp pieces we can grasp. Her moral compass may spin in a different direction than mine, but... mine isn’t exactly straight anymore either.

That’s the thing about bloodstains—once they set, they don’t wash out. Eventually, you stop trying. You just learn to wear them like war paint. Let people see what you’re capable of and pray they’re smart enough to stay out of your way.

Damon’s hand finds the small of my back, warm and grounding. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He and Connor cut a path through the fabric-draped room, then through the densely packed club, and I follow them out without a backward glance.

Monroe’s still waiting in the alley, half-cloaked in shadow. He starts the engine as Damon ushers me into the backseat and climbs in beside me.

“How’d it go?” Monroe asks, shifting to glance into the rearview mirror.

Damon pulls out the burner phone. “We need to get this to Lee. If he can trace it, we might finally get a lead on whoever’s behind all this.”

Connor leans forward, casual as ever. “Oh, and Lola sends her regards, Monroe. Says she’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow... when you come by to install the cameras.”

Monroe’s entire body turns in his seat as he glares directly at Damon, exasperated. “I did not sign up for that.”

“I’ll send Chavez with you,” Damon says .

Monroe grumbles something in Spanish as he turns back toward the road. I don’t know the words, but they twist with annoyance—and maybe a little embarrassment?

“The deal was protection in exchange for intel,” Damon adds. “Be glad she didn’t request a twenty-four seven bodyguard. Or a sleepover.”

“What’s Monroe’s issue?” I ask softly, turning my head toward Damon.

He leans in a little closer, like the truth is something not everyone should hear. I try to ignore the way his cologne drifts toward me—and the memory it drags with it from the bar.

“Monroe and Lola have... history.”

I raise a brow. “Like romantic history?”

Connor barks out a laugh from the passenger seat. “If you’d call a one-night stand at a sex club romantic — oof! ”

Monroe’s fist slams into Connor’s gut, hard enough to make him double over in his seat.

“A mistake,” Monroe mutters. “From a past life.”

And that’s where the conversation ends.

B ACK AT T HE S PEAKEASY , we cram into the small security office—bare walls and barren desks, just like I remember it. The air feels hotter in here, probably from the computers, but it also feels like secrets are pressed into the paint, whispering through the cracks.

Lee is already at his station, fingers tapping idly across his mechanical keyboard. The second we step inside, he straightens—alert, ready, almost eager for a new task.

Damon tosses him Lola’s burner without a word of warning, and he nearly fumbles to catch it.

“I need you to strip every byte of information off this device,” Damon orders, his voice clipped. “Lola was texting with the person who hired her. They sent her instructions. Pictures. I want to see everything. ”

“On it,” Lee mutters, already connecting the burner to his computer with a practiced hand. Lines of code immediately start scrolling across his main monitor in quick succession.

I step in behind him, hovering over his chair. His spine goes stiff the moment I’m close—his shoulders locked, like I might take a blade to his throat. Smart man.

But it doesn’t slow him down. He’s good. Efficient, even under pressure.

“Can you pull up the pictures first?” I ask, keeping my tone even.

Lee glances up—not at me, but at Damon.

Of course. He wants permission.

Damon steps in beside me, his presence a wall of heat and quiet intent. I don’t even need to look to know his eyes are on me, not the screen.

He nods once.

They all know why I’m here. What I’m after. Ever since that first night when they caught me breaking into the network, they’ve known that I’m hunting someone.

I don’t bother hiding it anymore. The truth is, my odds of finding him are better with their help. Their reach. Their hatred for the Songbirds.

I don’t trust any of them. Not really. But I trust that hate. And sometimes, mutual destruction makes a stronger foundation than false friendship.

So if I’m going to survive in their world... I might as well use their tools.

Lee breezes through the burner’s pathetic data cache in seconds. It’s practically scrubbed clean. No call logs. No saved contacts. But the message thread and attachments? Still intact. Just like Lola said they’d be.

He drags the first photo into the center of the screen and enlarges it. It’s the same one I’ve stared at a hundred times. But still, my breath catches.

The car hood is up, obscuring his face. But I know that posture. And that fucking tattoo.

Lee clicks forward. Another shot. Then another. Each one just a little too obscured. The lighting shifts as we move through each picture. The angles are all strange and taken from a distance—taken across the street or behind cover.

He was being watched. Stalked.

These weren’t just surveillance photos. They had to be taken to purposefully lure me in.

To make sure I chased the bait.

Damon leans in, his voice low and steady. “Anything with his face in it, Lee?”

Lee doesn’t answer. He just clicks faster, tension gathering in the room like a coming storm.

And then—

There.

The hood of the car drops.

And his face rises with it.

I stumble back from Lee’s chair, my hand shooting out to brace against the edge of the desk.

There he is.

The monster in flesh.

His skin is a little darker now—bronzed from time spent in the sun. His hair, once buzzed short, has grown into messy blond curls that skim the tops of his ears. His jawline is sharper. His frame slightly bulkier. Broader. Stronger.

The description I gave the police six months ago wouldn’t match what I’m looking at now.

But no amount of muscle or sun can change the truth.

That same songbird tattoo still fans across his chest like a brand he’s proud to wear.

And those eyes—ice blue and merciless—are ones I’d recognize anywhere. They’ve haunted every nightmare that I’ve drowned in since the night they took Amie.

Even if I wanted to forget him, I could never.

“It’s him...”

The words slip out in a whisper, meant only for me. But they hang in the air like smoke—thick, choking, undeniable.

No one moves.

No sharp gasps. No reactions.

Just the hum of the monitors. And the roar of my pulse in my ears .

I lift my gaze to Damon. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the twitch of muscle beneath the skin. He’s locked on Lee’s screen, burning holes through the pixels. But beneath the surface, I see something flicker.

Recognition .

My stomach twists, hard .

“Do you know who he is?” I ask, my voice low and tight.

Damon drags a hand slowly across his jaw, eyes flicking between the screen and mine.

He hesitates a beat too long.

“No,” he says finally. “But we’ll figure it out. He’s our best lead to finding out who hired Lola—clearly someone who considers him an enemy.”

Enemy .

The word sounds wrong. Too soft. Too human for the likes of him.

I turn to Lee, my voice snapping back into control. “Send me the photo. I’ll use R.O.S.E. to run it through every traceable database. If we act fast, we can be face-to-face with him before sunrise—”

“No,” Damon cuts in firmly. “First, we figure out who he is—what we’re up against. We can’t walk in without a plan.”

“I have a plan,” I snap. “I’m going to put a bullet between his eyes. Doesn’t matter who he is. Just what he’s done.”

Damon’s eyes harden. “This isn’t a game, Brie. Be smart about this—”

“Be smart ?” I growl, stepping toward him and invading his personal space. “Maybe he should’ve been smart. Maybe he should’ve thought twice before becoming my number one enemy.”

His hands come down on my shoulders—not harsh, but firm. Controlled, contained power. Just enough to anchor me.

His gaze locks onto mine, steady and dark, and for a moment, the rest of the room falls away.

“I meant that you are smart,” he says, softer now. “And you know charging in without a plan gets people killed.”

“I don’t care— ”

“You do,” he cuts in, gentle but unrelenting. “You care. That’s why you’re burning so hot right now.”

There’s a heaviness in his words. Not just a warning—an echo. Like he’s speaking from experience. Like he’s said this to himself before.

“I know you want revenge for what he did to your parents, but—”

“My sister.”

The word rips from my throat before I can stop it. Small. Brittle. But it hits the air like a bullet.

Damon stills. “What?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat clamps shut and my lungs twist into knots. My chest tightens like it’s trying to collapse in on itself.

I haven’t said her name aloud in months. Haven’t let her exist outside the locked chamber I built in the back of my mind. Not here. Not in front of anyone.

I don’t even know why I brought her up now.

Maybe it’s the photos. Maybe it’s the rage.

Or maybe it’s Damon’s eyes—seeing me like no one else has.

“He killed my parents,” I whisper, the words dry and hollow. “Him and someone else. But my little sister... he took more than her life that night.”

There’s no need to explain. Damon hears the words I don’t say. He knows what that means.

His expression shifts. The edge leaves his jaw. His hands stay on my shoulders, tightening like now he might need grounding.

“You’ll get your revenge,” he says quietly. “But I need you to trust me. Just for a few days. Please.”

Trust him .

It sounds so simple when he says it.

But trust doesn’t live here anymore. Not in me.

And when I remember that flicker in his expression—when he looked at that photo and something registered —the hairline cracks in my restraint start to widen.

He’s hiding something .

Maybe he’s lying.

Maybe it’s just a piece of the truth he’s not ready to share.

But the burn is the same either way.

I lift my chin and meet his gaze.

“Okay,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “I trust you.”

And I wonder if the lie slipped as easily off my tongue as his did.