Page 30 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

“ Funny ,” Chavez drawls, crossing his arms. “And here I was coming to relieve you from your babysitting shift. State-mandated break and all.”

Babysitting?

I narrow my eyes. “Watch it, Chavez.”

He just smirks back at me.

“Ignore him,” Monroe says, patting my shoulder with surprising gentleness.

The motion is almost soothing—something my dad would’ve done when I was younger.

“Take a breather,” he says. “We can keep going whenever you want.”

He isn’t kicking me out, but the way he and Chavez exchange a look after that tells me they want to talk without me.

I nod casually, like I don’t care. Then I slip out the gym door and press my back against the wall just beside it.

I don’t go far.

Because whatever they’re about to say—I’m sure I want to hear it.

For a few minutes, they don’t say anything. There’s just silence, thick and deliberate, like they’re waiting to make sure I’m gone.

Then Monroe finally speaks.

“Any updates I should know about?”

Chavez sighs. “Not much. Lee’s still digging for a location. Damon and Connor left about an hour ago.”

“To do what?”

“To get information,” Chavez says. “Or... try, at least.”

There’s another long pause, like they’re somehow communicating without speaking.

The air in the hallway grows heavier with every second I stand here. It’s like every word they say, and don’t say, is pressing against my chest.

Then Monroe asks, “Are they planning to tell her? ”

My heart skips—then drops like a stone.

“I don’t know,” Chavez replies. “It’s a dicey situation. You know that.”

“This situation isn’t going to get less dicey if she finds out on her own,” Monroe says, his voice low and serious. “She has the right to know. Especially knowing what he did.”

“I agree,” Chavez says. “But you know the risks. Damon knows them better than all of us. That’s why it has to be him who makes the call.”

Monroe sighs—softly. Barely more than a breath.

“I know.”

That’s all he says.

Quiet.

Final.

Before they can catch me listening, I push off the wall and walk the rest of the hall as if I wasn’t just pressed against it like a child eavesdropping on the grown-ups. I slip into the bedroom, shut the door, and twist the lock with more force than necessary.

Damon knows who he is. They all do.

And they won’t tell me.

I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like they trust me. I’m The Black Rose, the girl who hacked her way into their lives. The outsider. The weapon no one fully wants to claim.

But it still hurts. Worse than I want to admit.

Damon looked me in the eye and lied .

Even after I told him what that man did to Amie. Even after I let that part of myself slip through the cracks.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until the sting of oncoming tears fades. Until the tightness in my chest dulls to something I can control.

Bury. Store away for later.

Because this isn’t about feelings.

This is about justice.

I can’t afford to sit around waiting for Damon to make a decision that should’ve already been made. He and his inner circle don’t owe me anything—and I don’t owe them my patience .

I’ll figure this out myself. I always do.

I just need a new plan.

My muscles are sore from training with Monroe—deep, heavy aches that settle into my bones like a warning. I don't smell particularly bad , but there’s a grimy sheen clinging to my skin, like every drop of sweat has been laced with adrenaline and frustration.

I head to the bathroom and immediately clock the glorious tub at the opposite end. It sinks into the floor like an oasis, surrounded by dark tile and bronze accents. There are enough jets inside to make an airport jealous.

Is it possible to be sexually attracted to a bathtub?

...Or am I just pent-up?

Probably both.

But I don’t let myself indulge, no matter how tempting the idea of slipping under that water is.

Control starts with restraint.

Instead, I climb into the shower and turn the water up hot enough to sting. I scrub hard, working out tension and sweat from every limb until my skin is flushed red.

My thigh is almost fully healed now—the burn just barely discolours the skin, a pale pink shadow of what it was.

Still, I’m careful with it. I avoid direct pressure, even though it’s sore from the tight workout clothes. It’s nothing like the pain it used to be—more of a reminder than a warning.

Once I’m clean, I step out and wrap myself in one of the impossibly soft towels.

Damon keeps this place stocked like a five-star hotel.

I brush through my hair, then twist it into the towel before working in a bit of my favourite leave-in conditioner.

I don’t bother blow drying it. The air-dried waves always come out better—looser, wilder, less manufactured.

When I flip my hair out of my face and catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes immediately zero in on it .

The scar.

Long. Pale. Crooked. Etched from my collarbone to my sternum like a cruel artist’s signature.

I hear Dahlia’s voice again, soft in the back of my mind :

Learn to see them as proof of your strength instead of a mark of shame.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But all I ever see is damage.

The cream she gave me has helped with the discolouration—slightly. But it’s not the look that bothers me most. It’s what it reminds me of—what it represents .

Gunfire. Screams.

Devil masks. Stiff carpet under my back.

Soulless eyes staring down at me.

Blood—so much fucking blood.

And her face.

Her fear.

Her last breath.

I stare at the scar and feel the fury start to bubble again. Like acid rising under my skin.

Revenge.

That is why I’m here.

To make sure that photo— his photo—is more than a lead.

It has to be a death sentence.

I’m sure Lee has the image stored somewhere by now on their network. That’s not the problem.

The problem is getting a strong enough internet connection to run R.O.S.E. without tripping anything.

Then, I remember door at the end of the hallway. The one with the keypad lock and reinforced frame. It has to be Damon’s office. The one place no one else seems to go. I’m sure he has an ethernet connection in there.

But getting the key code out of him will be near impossible, and I don’t want to risk triggering some kind of silent alarm by guessing.

But The Speakeasy’s security room doesn’t need a code.

Only a key.

And keys can be lifted .

But Damon will probably have the key on him at all times. He definitely won’t just hang them up by the front door. He’s not stupid. He’s never not in control .

But I’ve seen him lose it. Just once. The night that we confronted Lola.

He asked how I make people do just that—lower their guard, peel away from their herd and follow me into the shadows. He pushed, practically demanded to know the secret.

And when I gave him even a taste... he folded .

The press of his body against my back. His voice in my ear. The way his hands closed around my throat like he couldn’t help himself.

I won’t lie—I felt it too. The way his mouth found my skin. The way I almost didn’t want him to stop.

But this isn’t about wanting.

Focus.

This is just like every other job. Every other man.

Get close. Get what you need. Get out.

A shiver runs down my spine as Damon’s voice echoes in my mind, low and accusing—almost reverent.

“Liar.”