Page 28 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

I take a step forward. “I’d start talking, James. Before I let Connor pick a toy.”

James’s gaze flicks to the tools behind me. I watch the panic bloom behind his blackened eyes. Watch his Adam’s apple twitch as he tries to swallow around the terror.

“He left,” James blurts. “When the boss told him no, he quit. Walked away. I haven’t seen him since.”

My fists curl tight again.

Those words don’t sit right.

He left.

That’s it? He just walked away?

When I tried to leave, they fed me the usual bullshit— Once a Songbird, always a Songbird. No exit route. No peace. I had to fight tooth and fucking nail to carve a path out. To bleed for it. Beg for it. Threaten for it.

And Xander? He just left ?

And they let him go —just like that?

Something inside me snaps.

Maybe Brie won’t get the kill shot after all.

Because if I see Xander O’Doyle first... I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.

I pick up the knife from the floor and flip it in my hand—the blade pinched between my thumb and forefinger, then the handle back into my palm. Muscle memory guides the motion as I step toward James.

“I was really hoping you’d end up being more useful, James,” I sigh, stopping just a few inches from him. He stiffens, arms straining against the ropes like that might make a difference now.

“Listen,” he sputters, eyes locked on the knife. “If you let me go... I can ask around. Maybe someone else has seen him. I can be discreet.”

Connor lets out a cold, humourless sound from deep in his throat—more growl than laugh. “You mean warn them that The Coyote’s sniffing around again? You think we’re stupid? ”

“No! No, I wouldn’t—” James yelps as Connor digs his fingers into the back of his neck. “I swear I won’t tell them. I’ll be careful!”

“James, James, James...” I click my tongue. “Even if I believed that, letting you walk goes against my moral code. You know, considering all the shit you’re known for.”

He flinches, shoulders curling inward like they can shield him from what’s coming.

Keeping him alive might be smart. Let him spread the word, stir up some fear, maybe even dig up intel like he promised.

But just because he might still be useful doesn’t mean I forget who he is. Or what he’s done.

“You know I’m just doing what I’m told,” he mumbles, weakly, but his words sound empty—like even he doesn’t believe them.

I place a hand on his shoulder. The other brings the knife up—just a whisper of steel against the pulse at his throat.

“And you should know that excuse doesn’t work on me,” I say, my voice low and measured.

James lifts his chin, locking eyes with me despite the swelling. “Not all of us have the strength to fight against the people who saved us.”

My hand freezes.

The blade pauses against his neck as the weight of those words hits bone-deep.

The Songbirds do feel like saviours—at first. Especially to the desperate. Especially to boys like me.

I was fifteen when I first walked into their world.

My mom was sick. We were two weeks away from losing the shitty little apartment we called home.

I was working illegal jobs under the table, getting cheated out of every dollar I earned—hauling crates with a broken wrist, delivering packages across town on my bike.

Nobody gave a damn about some kid trying to save his mother.

And then Xander showed up.

Grinning. Flashy. Confident. Full of promises .

All I had to do was join up. Work for his father. And the money rolled in.

Enough to pay rent.

Enough to put food in the fridge.

Enough to line her cabinet with the medication she needed.

Enough to pretend, for a little while, that I wasn’t selling myself off in pieces.

But the Songbirds don’t offer charity. They offer chains disguised as freedom.

To earn with them, you bleed for them. And eventually... you forget where your soul ended and theirs began.

I shove the memory back where it belongs—deep, caged, behind the locked door where the rest of my past waits with claws and sharp teeth.

I slip the mask back on. Flash James a smile.

It doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Doesn’t take strength,” I murmur. “Just a big enough catalyst to make you jump—no matter how hard you know the landing will be.”

Then I bury the knife in his throat.

It’s fast. A clean puncture to the carotid. Probably more mercy than he deserves.

Blood erupts in a sharp arterial spray, hot and thick as it splatters across my shirt and pools at my boots in a dark crimson puddle.

James jerks once. Then again.

His body slumps, still bound, eyes glazing over as his mouth tries—and fails—to form one last plea.

I hold his gaze until the life drains out of his eyes.

Only then do I look up and find Connor watching me.

“You good?” he asks, his tone flat and unreadable.

“No.” I wipe the blade on my bloodstained sleeve, not bothering to hide the truth. “I wish it was someone else’s blood.”

Connor’s grin flares, quick and brief, like a match struck in the dark.

“Me too. ”

He lets go of James’s head, and his body collapses forward like a rag doll, chin landing in the spreading pool of red on his shirt.

The room falls silent. Except for the low hum of the warehouse lights.

And the sound of my own pulse—thudding like a war drum in my ears.