Page 27 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

I T TOOK AN HOUR OF BACK AND FORTH before I could convince Brie to go back to the apartment.

She wants blood—and she wants it tonight . And hell, if this were anyone else she was hunting, I’d be the first to hand her the bullet. Watch her pull the trigger. Hold her steady while she did it.

But this isn’t just anyone .

Monroe’s keeping an eye on her now, making sure she doesn’t hack her way into making herself a target before we have a chance to plan our next move. She said she trusted me. But I saw the hesitation in her eyes after. The silence that curled inward like a fist.

She thinks I’m lying. Or holding back.

And she’s right.

In The Speakeasy’s back room, Connor, Chavez, and I are crowded around Lee’s desk. It’s tight, too hot, and the tension’s starting to bite. It hasn’t let up since we all saw that picture.

Lee’s eyes are locked on his screens, dissecting every scrap from Lola’s burner. Aside from the photos, there’s nothing. No name. No traceable contact. Just enough breadcrumbs to keep us running in circles.

“So,” Connor drawls, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall, “are you gonna tell her?”

There’s no tease in his voice. No smirk. He’s pissed. The way he always is when anything stinks of Songbird .

“She’ll figure it out eventually,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. My temples are pulsing. “I just... fuck . I need a second to think.”

Chavez shakes his head slowly, his jaw tight. “What are the odds it’s him ? Out of every bastard in New York... it had to be fucking Xander O’Doyle .”

Just the name makes my pulse spike.

My fists curl. Before I can stop myself—

Crack.

My knuckles slam into the desk. The wood splits beneath my hand, a spiderweb of fractured grain.

“I should’ve killed that fucker when I had the chance.”

Connor scoffs. “Yeah. No argument here.”

Alexander O’Doyle.

The prodigal son of Matthias O’Doyle—the leader of the Songbirds. He was the golden boy. The heir. The one who took me in and called me brother .

The one I nearly put in the ground.

I haven’t seen him in two years. Not since the night I walked away from them for good. Not since I pressed a gun to his temple, cocked the hammer, and listened to him beg .

My finger was on the trigger.

And still—I hesitated.

For everything he did. For what he threatened . For the girl I buried because of him. I had every goddamn reason to finish it.

But Matthias offered me a deal.

Let his son live, and in exchange, he wouldn’t come after me. I didn’t care about that part—I knew how to disappear. But he also promised to leave Kings alone. No hits. No trespassing. No bloodbaths in the streets I called home.

At the time, it felt like the only selfless decision I had left. Sacrifice my own revenge for peace. For the safety of the only family I had left.

But now?

Now it feels like the biggest fucking mistake of my life .

We all knew Brie was hunting someone. We had our suspicions on the who and why. Assumed it was a Songbird tied back to her parents deaths.

I never thought for a second that the monster she’s searched for the last six months could be the one I let walk away.

“But my little sister... he took more than her life that night.”

Her voice slices through me like a blade. I hear it again—raw, ragged, laced with pain. I see the tremor in her jaw, the fury she’s trying not to drown in.

And all I can think is, I should’ve pulled the trigger .

I want to go back. To the night I spared him. Back to that rain-slick street outside the Songbird compound. I want to feel the weight of that gun again, pressed against his forehead. Hear the click of the hammer. Only this time, I don’t hesitate.

This time, I don’t flinch.

But I can’t go back.

All I can do is find a way forward.

I can’t let Brie charge in and kill Alexander O’Doyle. Even if she deserves it. Even if I want her to watch the life drain from his fucking eyes.

Because if she kills him now, she won’t survive the fallout. The Songbirds will come for her like rabid wolves. Border agreement or not.

And no matter how many guns I’ve got, no matter how wide my reach is—there’s no winning a war with an army like his father’s.

So I have to be smarter.

I need to lure him here. To Kings . Where I make the rules. Where my eyes cover every alley, every rooftop, every door. Where I control the chessboard.

I’ll break him down. Get a confession. Evidence. Leverage.

And when I’ve got him dead to rights—when there’s no escape, no denial, no father left to hide behind—we’ll kill him.

Not for me.

For her.

But first... I have to find the son of a bitch .

“Lee, find everything you can on Xander O’Doyle.

Where he lives, where he eats, who he fucks, who he answers to,” I say, unable to contain the bite in my tone.

“Based on the photos, I’d bet he’s operating out of a mechanic shop.

Might be his, might not. Either way—trace it. I want a location by morning.”

Lee nods without looking up, already pulling tools from his mental shelf that’ll get the job done.

“I’m hoping wherever he is, it’s close enough to the borders that hauling his ass into Kings won’t raise suspicion,” I add.

Chavez lifts his brows. “You’re actually gonna take him out?” There’s no judgment in his tone—just quiet surprise. “Not saying he doesn’t fucking deserve it. But he’s still an O’Doyle.”

“Matthias is a piece of shit,” I say flatly, “but he keeps his word. Always has. If I can prove Xander was in Kings—and that I had reason to put him down—then technically, I won’t be breaking our deal.”

“ Technically ,” Chavez echoes, still unconvinced.

“There’ll be backlash,” I admit. “But Matthias won’t send an army. Not unless I botch the job or make it public. This has to be clean.”

Chavez still doesn’t look thrilled with the plan, but there’s a shift in his eyes. He doesn’t trust O’Doyle—but he trusts me .

“All right,” he says finally. “What can I do?”

I cross my arms, glancing toward the door. Brie’s exit flashes behind my eyes—her tight jaw, clipped words, fire she tried to swallow. She hates waiting. Hates not being the one holding the gun.

“Rest up,” I tell him. “Then rotate shifts with Monroe. I want one of you on Brie at all times.”

He nods and starts moving without hesitation.

“She won’t sit still once she gets wind of Xander’s location,” I add. “And when that happens, Monroe’s gonna need backup. She’ll barrel in before we’re ready if we don’t keep her grounded. ”

Chavez gives a two-finger salute before disappearing down the hall, his boots echoing off the concrete floor.

Connor, still posted against the wall with his arms crossed, tilts his head toward me. His voice cuts through the quiet with leftover tension. “What’s that leave for me?”

I smirk.

“We’re going to go gather some intel the old-fashioned way.”

Connor’s eyes gleam. The scowl he’s been nursing since he heard Xander’s name finally twists into a grin.

“ Fuck yeah .”

T HERE’S A CERTAIN

thrill in the sound of bone shattering beneath your fist—especially when it belongs to a man who damn well deserves it.

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve missed this more than I probably should.

Since I built King’s Eye, most of my intel comes clean, quiet, controlled. These days, through blackmail, surveillance, and leverage, I usually know what I need before anyone even opens their mouth.

But this? This is different.

I cock my fist back and drive it into James Rierson’s nose. Another sickening crunch follows, cartilage snapping like dry twigs. Blood spatters across his mouth and chin, trails down his throat, and stains his shirt a deeper red.

He groans, sagging forward. The only thing keeping him upright is the rope binding his wrists and chest to the rusted chair at the center of this forgotten warehouse.

“Please,” he chokes out, blood dribbling from split lips. “I don’t know where Xander is. You have to believe me.”

“We don’t have to do shit,” Connor snaps.

He grabs a fistful of James’s matted hair and yanks his head back, forcing him to look up. James’s face is a swollen mess—tears cutting streaks through the blood, his eyes nearly swollen shut .

I grab a towel off the floor and wipe my hands.

Behind me, our tools are laid out on a tarp.

They’re nothing fancy—just what you’d typically find in a trunk: a wrench, tire iron, jumper cables.

There’s also a screwdriver and a tactical knife.

Enough to send a message, if not carve it into someone’s spine.

We keep the SUV stocked. Always. Out of habit, not paranoia. And everything’s clean enough to pass if the cops ever grew a pair and started asking questions—which they won’t.

I crouch by the tools, dragging a finger across the metal, then glance back at our guest.

“Come on, James,” I say, like we’re old friends catching up over drinks. “You and Xander got real cozy after he and I had our little... falling out. I just want to know where he hangs his hat these days. Call it me feeling nostalgic.”

James tries to look at me—tries, but his face is too far gone. “I haven’t seen him in over a year,” he rasps. “He didn’t agree with the boss. Wanted to build a team. Said he’d take Kings back... come after you. Boss said he had a death wish.”

“Not wrong,” Connor’s tone sharpens as he wrenches James’s head farther back, twisting his spine until something pops in his neck. “And what happened after poor little Xander didn’t get what he wanted from daddy dearest?”

James gurgles, his eyes flaring with something volatile—rage, fear, maybe both.

Then, with a sudden lurch, he spits a mouthful of blood straight into Connor’s face.

Red spatters across Connor’s cheek and chin.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t blink.

Just grins .

The kind of smile that lives in nightmares—wild and empty.

Connor enjoys this too much. He always has. There are few things in this world that unsettle me, but his joy in breaking people? It scratches at something buried deep in my spine .