Page 29 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SIT STILL SINCE Monroe dragged me back up to Damon’s apartment. The walls are too quiet. The ceiling too low. I feel like I’m going to claw my own skin off if I don’t get my hands on that fucking picture again.

I’ve never felt so close to justice while still being so impossibly far from it.

Whoever that man is—whoever stole my sister’s life—Damon knows him. I saw it in his eyes. The hesitation. The guilt.

And he won’t tell me.

Maybe it’s someone he used to run with? An old friend? Someone he couldn’t bring himself to kill?

Or maybe someone he still wants to protect.

I don’t know which thought pisses me off more.

I slam the fridge door harder than I mean to. Condiments rattle in protest, the glass bottles clinking like mocking laughter.

I’m also starving , which doesn’t help my mood.

This high-rise has a kitchen that looks like it was pulled out of a Michelin-star chef’s wet dream—marble counters, a fridge that can tell you the weather, a state-of-the-art gas range with a fucking pot filler above it.

But all they have stocked are eggs, cereal, soda, energy drinks, and half a bottle of tequila.

Oh—and a barista-grade coffee station near the corner that I’m positive none of these burly idiots know how to use. There’s a carafe by the sink that gets more action than a common area couch at the dorms .

It’s like I’ve been trapped inside a frat house paid for by a cartel sugar daddy.

“I know you’re upset, chica , but you don’t have to take it out on the fridge,” Monroe says, leaning his elbows on the island across from me.

“Would you rather I take it out on you?” I ask, cracking open a Coke and taking a long sip as I meet his gaze.

He pauses, like he’s actually weighing the pros and cons. “I’ve seen you fight. Wouldn’t be fair.”

I slam the can down harder than necessary. Bubbles hiss and foam at the opening. “The one time you saw me fight, I stabbed your friend through the hand and then you drugged me,” I remind him, my voice just as sharp as the memory. “Not sure I’d call that a fair fight either.”

Monroe scoffs. “First off, that night was business. Nothing personal.”

“Funny,” I say, arching a brow. “Because it felt pretty personal.”

“You’re scrappy,” he admits, “but that’s different from being trained to kill. There's a gap.”

There’s a beat of silence before I ask, “What’s the second thing?”

Monroe arches a brow.

“You said ‘first off,’ which implies there’s more.”

He shrugs. “Second, you stabbed Connor —who’s more of an irritating liability than a friend.”

Interesting.

“Do I sense some tension in the brotherhood?” I tease, folding my arms over the counter. I keep my tone sugary sweet to conceal my suspicion. “You hide it well. Especially with the way Damon talks about you all like family.”

Monroe sighs.

It’s the kind of sound you make when you realize you’ve said too much, too fast.

“We are

a family,” he says, slower this time. “But no family gets by without a few brawls. I’d take a bullet for any one of them... but I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy watching Connor get stabbed that one time. ”

My lips twitch into a smirk.

But it doesn’t last.

Because I do understand that kind of love. That messy, furious kind. The kind that exists somewhere between strangling and shielding someone.

Amie and I had it. We fought like wild things as kids—hair-pulling, door-slamming, threat-hurling wild. But underneath all the yelling, there was love.

Always love.

Even the last night... especially the last night.

We argued, yeah. But it didn’t change the fact that I would’ve given anything— everything —to protect her. To take her place.

But I wasn’t strong enough.

“I’m sorry,” Monroe says suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts so fast it feels like whiplash.

I blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. Clearing my dry throat, I lift the Coke to my lips again, buying time to compose myself.

“For what?”

“For your sister,” he says simply. “And... for the needle to your neck. But mostly your sister. No one should have to watch the people they love die.”

The words hit me somewhere deep—somewhere I keep buried behind sarcastic one-liners and ice-pick stares.

I swallow around the lump forming in my throat and force out a scoff. “Sounds like everyone around here has experience with that.”

He considers that, then nods once.

“Maybe you fit in here after all.”

I crack a half-smile. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say, trying to deflect before it gets too real.

But Monroe’s expression doesn’t change. His face is carved from stone, eyes unreadable.

“I still don’t trust you,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow.

“But I don’t really trust anyone,” he adds .

There’s a beat of silence that feels more like a mile. But I lift my can and tip it toward him in cheers. “Another thing we have in common.”

But I can feel the moment my hardened mask slips.

Because I can’t stop thinking about what he said before—that he’d protect the others with his life. That he’s trained for this.

And the truth is, I’m not.

Before all of this, I’d never fought anyone in my life.

Not even a schoolyard scuffle. No wrestling, no slapping matches, nothing.

The first time I held a gun, I could barely keep my hand steady.

I shot it anyway. I had to. But afterward, my arm shook for hours.

The next day, it felt like the adrenaline had turned my entire body into jelly.

I’ve killed.

I’ve interrogated.

I’ve hacked men’s lives to pieces…

But I’m not trained.

And if Monroe can tell... my enemies will surely be able to.

“There’s a gym in this place, right?” I ask casually, though my heart picks up pace.

He nods. “There is. Why?”

“I want to learn how to fight. Properly,” I say.

My voice is steady, but inside, something wavers.

“If I’m sticking around—if I’m going after this mystery man—then I need to be able to hold my own.”

I pause, lowering my eyes to the counter. My fingers tighten slightly on the can in my hand.

“And I don’t want to be in a position where I feel helpless again.”

Monroe doesn’t speak right away.

I look up to find him watching me—really seeing me—for the first time since we met.

Then, a ghost of a smile passes his lips.

“I think that can be arranged,” he says. “But make no mistake, I won’t go easy on you.”

I meet his eyes and smile. This time, it’s real.

Quiet, but real .

“I’m not asking you to.”

M AYBE I SHOULD’VE asked him to go easy on me.

For what has to be the tenth time in the last two hours, Monroe slams me flat on my back.

Again.

The padded mat cushions the blow, but not by much. I hit hard enough that my lungs forget how to work, and I just lie there—sweaty, aching, and officially humbled—staring blankly at the ceiling like it’s got the answers I’m missing.

“Giving up already, chica ?” Monroe asks from the edge of the mat, barely winded.

He might as well be standing on a beach sipping a drink with one of those tiny umbrellas in it.

“No,” I huff, dragging myself upright on shaky arms.

But the second I lift my head, the room spins, and I drop back onto my palms with a groan.

“Maybe... I just need a minute.”

“Or ten,” he says, tossing me a bottle of water from the mini fridge in the corner. “You’ve sweat out your entire bodyweight in fluid.”

“Dramatic,” I mutter, but the water hits my throat like salvation.

Damn it . He might actually be right.

He rolls his shoulders and stretches out his neck before jutting his chin in my direction. “Might help if you weren’t wearing a sweater.”

I glance down at the black athletic pullover I yanked on earlier. It clings to my body now, damp with sweat.

Tight-fitted was Monroe’s only instruction when he told me to change clothes before we started. It immediately ruled out most of my T-shirts, and I don’t own any tank tops with necklines high enough to cover what I need covered.

The scar still makes my skin crawl .

I tug the quarter zipper higher. Not because it’s slipping down from my neck—it’s just a habit that makes me feel safer.

“Guess we’re just confirming that I don’t usually go to the gym,” I say.

He doesn’t laugh, but his expression softens in that non-obvious Monroe kind of way.

He offers me his hand again. And I take it.

But the second I’m upright, his knee sweeps into the back of mine. I stumble, barely catching myself on my hands before I face-plant.

A palm presses into my spine, pinning me to the mat.

He clicks his tongue—the fucking nerve .

“That was lesson five, Brie: always keep your guard up.”

“I don’t even remember lessons one through four,” I grumble, my voice muffled by the way my cheek squishes against the mat.

I try to twist my neck to glare at him, but I’m too sore to be intimidating.

Then, a voice from the door interrupts the lesson.

“Keep your thumbs out when you clench your fists. Aim for sensitive targets. Evade instead of blocking. And if you hit the ground, get back to your feet—fast.”

I glance over Monroe’s shoulder as Chavez steps into the gym, ticking off Monroe’s lessons on his fingers with a smug grin. “That still the order you teach them in?”

Monroe finally lets up, pulling his palm from my back as he rises to stand. He offers me his hand again.

This time, I don’t take it.

I stand on my own, every muscle screaming in protest—but I straighten my spine and hold my posture. Stand tall.

Or as tall as I can next to him.

Monroe gives a small nod of approval. “She learns faster than you did,” he says, glancing toward Chavez.

Chavez leans against the doorframe and barks out a laugh. “Maybe I just made you a better teacher, sabelotodo .”

I glance between the two of them, my mind catching the pieces as they click into place .

I turn back to Monroe. “You taught Chavez how to fight?”

He nods once, his tone drier now. “Kid was worse off than you when we took him in.”