Page 31 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I WAITED A FEW HOURS AFTER I HEARD Damon come back.

They had one of their usual late-night “family dinners”—just after one in the morning. All of them were there, minus Connor, who’s probably covering a shift at The Speakeasy.

I didn’t join. I never do.

And considering what I’m about to do tonight, I shouldn’t start pretending like I’m part of their inner circle now.

I sat in my room while they ate. Listening. Waiting. Until, one by one, the others left. Their voices faded behind the elevator doors. Laughter turned to silence.

Now, it’s just me and Damon. Alone.

He hasn’t come looking for me. Hasn’t knocked. Hasn’t even tried. He’s letting me stay in the dark, and I can feel it—how comfortable he is with keeping me there.

But I’ve lived in the dark before, and I know how to find my way through it.

When the quiet finally settles across the apartment like a second skin, I twist the doorknob and slip into the hallway. It’s almost exactly like the other night—silver moonlight bleeding through the windows, stretching long shadows across polished floors.

The massive apartment is cloaked in stillness. And yet... it doesn’t feel empty.

It’s like something—someone—is still awake. Still watching.

I move quietly, barefoot, my silk shorts riding up my thighs as I walk. I silently hope he’s not in his office. I need him out in the open—unguarded .

In the living room, I let my fingers trail along the wall until they find the light switch. When I flip it, soft amber glows ambiently along the baseboards and beneath the cabinets, casting the whole room in something warm and low and private.

And I find him.

Damon’s slouched in his usual spot in the far corner, one leg stretched out, an untouched drink in his hand. His eyes lift to mine slowly, heavy-lidded like he’d been dozing—though judging by the purple bruising beneath them, I’d bet he hasn’t truly slept in days.

He looks… wrecked .

But when his gaze drags down the length of my legs, pausing at the hem of my shorts, I know he’s not that tired.

Good. My plan depends on that.

“You’re up late again,” he says, his voice graveled from either whiskey or weariness—maybe both.

“You’re brooding again,” I reply, descending into the sunken living room, each step deliberately slow and cautious.

He tips his glass, sipping the dark liquid within before setting it down on the end table. “And does that scare you, little rose?”

I tilt my head. “You don’t scare me.”

The ghost of a laugh escapes his throat—dry and humourless. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cushions like he’s surrendering to gravity.

“I heard you and Monroe were sparring earlier.”

“We were,” I say, crossing the room and lowering myself onto the couch—close enough to be casual, far enough to be calculated. “Though I’m not sure it counts as sparring if I didn’t manage to land a single hit.”

“You challenged the best of the best,” he says without looking at me. “The fact that you’re still alive means you did something right.”

I raise a brow. “You don’t think you’re the best of the best?”

“Not by a long shot.”

His answer is quiet. Honest .

And that... unsettles me.

His mouth dips at the corners, like the weight of something old and unspoken is pressing in again. It’s not the usual edge I get from him. It’s... softer. Sadder.

And I hate that it makes my chest tighten.

I don’t want to feel anything for him.

“I heard you were out with Connor today,” I say, changing the subject. “Getting information?”

Damon’s eyes snap open.

His sharp gaze lands on me, but I don’t shrink beneath it like he probably wants me to. I hold his stare with a blank expression, feigning my innocence.

Then his eyes soften again. He studies me like he’s weighing what version of the truth I deserve.

If he told me the truth now, maybe I could call this off.

Maybe I wouldn’t have to manipulate him.

Maybe I could just ask .

But I already know the answer before it leaves his mouth.

“Not yet,” he says. “We’re still looking.”

And just like that, something in my traitor of a chest sinks like a brick into the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t expect him to tell me the truth. But some stupid, fragile part of me hoped for it anyway.

“I want to help,” I say, keeping my voice level. “I know you don’t trust me, but—”

“That’s not why I’m keeping you out of this,” he cuts in, fast. As if the words had been sitting on his tongue, waiting to be said. “When it comes to the Songbirds… it’s just safer if we stay cautious. For now.”

“Damon, I’ve been doing this for months,” I remind him. “I’ve tracked them. Cornered them. I’ve seen how they work. I know how dangerous this is, and I can handle myself—”

“I know you can handle yourself,” he says, but his tone is sharp, like the edges of broken glass. “But I can’t handle the thought of him hurting you more than he already has.”

His words fry my brain.

I open my mouth, then close it again when nothing comes out .

His eyes flare with something—rage, fear, need —and it knocks the air from my lungs.

Silence settles between us, heavy and electric.

This is what I need—his guard down, just enough to let me close. Close enough to take what I came for.

So why does it feel like I'm about to hurt both of us?

I shove the doubt into the mental lockbox where I keep everything else that makes me soft, and I rise slowly from the couch.

“Why not?” I ask, stepping toward him slowly.

“The only reason we met is because I betrayed you. The only reason I’m here at all is because I know too much.

I’m a liability—a thorn in your side. Wouldn’t my death solve all that? ”

Damon watches me.

His expression doesn’t shift much, but something deeper flickers through his eyes.

It’s haunted. Tired.

And equally possessive .

“It would,” he says quietly. “But then I’d lose you too.”

The words land like a sucker punch to my chest.

My ribs ache, and my heart starts pounding—like it’s trying to escape and save itself from the blow.

I force a grin, trying to keep it playful. “That implies you have me already.”

I step between his knees, just like I did in the hotel room.

Back then, I had my gun.

Back then, he didn’t know what I was capable of.

Now? I’m the weapon.

And he doesn’t even realize it.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “You may not be mine to lose. But I’d feel it all the same.”

His gaze dips down, to the place where my thighs meet the silk hem of my shorts. He lifts one hand—slow and reverent—and brushes his knuckle along the outer curve of my leg, just above the fading powder burn.

It doesn’t hurt now. But his fingers leave a trail of fire behind them .

“I’ve made mistakes that’ve gotten people hurt. People who didn’t deserve it,” he says, his voice so low I barely catch the words. “And I’m not ready to add you to that list.”

The tenderness in his tone is worse than the fire.

It coils tight in my ribs, something sharp and aching.

Then he whispers in my ear—like a confession he’s too ashamed to admit to anyone but me.

“Forgive me... for being a little selfish with you.”

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too honest.

And it hurts .

I cup his jaw, force him to look at me again. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips. Too warm.

“I’m fine,” I say, soft but sure.

He exhales like I just proved his point.

“You’re always fine,” he replies. “What will it take to make you feel more than just fine?”

I open my mouth again.

But nothing comes out.

Because I don’t remember what it feels like to be more than fine. I only know how to survive.

I avoid his question and shift forward, tucking my knees onto the couch and letting them sink into the cushions on either side of his hips. The movement catches him off guard—his body tenses, his hands lifting like he’s afraid to touch me.

Like I might break if he does.

“I’m not a porcelain doll,” I remind him. “I’m not fragile. You don’t need to protect me. Especially not from yourself.”

I lean in, draping my arms loosely around the back of his neck. My breath brushes the shell of his ear, and I feel the shudder that ripples through him.

“You can be a little selfish with me.”

“Don’t.”

His voice is sharp, almost pleading. He grabs my jaw and pulls back just enough for our eyes to lock. His grip is firm, but not cruel. Those dark, near-black eyes cuts straight through my armour, into whatever’s left underneath.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Brie. ”

“I’m already in it,” I tell him, growing frustrated. “Just trust me. Give me a reason to trust you. Whether you like it or not, I’m here. And there’s no way out now.”

He exhales hard, like the breath costs him something.

His hands shift from my face to my thighs, gripping them firmly as he stands. I hold tighter around his neck, half-expecting him to carry me away, to lose control completely.

But instead, he turns and drops me back onto the couch.

I blink up at him, stunned, as he looms over me with something haunted in his eyes.

“I hate that you’re in this,” he says. “I hate that you’ve been dragged into something this fucked, because the last time I cared about someone this much, they used her to get to me. Just like someone’s using you now.”

His voice is rough. Final.

“I couldn’t save her. But I will protect you. Even if it costs me your trust.”

Something in his voice—some raw, trembling truth—undoes a knot in my chest.

I don’t know what happened back then. None of them talk about it.

But now... I know there was someone.

Someone he couldn’t save.

This isn’t just a war for him. It’s a repeat of the worst chapter in his life.

And I don’t know what that means for me .

Do I matter to him because I’m me ?

Or am I just another echo of the girl he lost?

“I want to trust you,” I say quietly. “But I can’t if you keep pushing me into the dark.”

His gaze flicks to mine. Searching—like he’s trying to gauge if I really mean it.

And I do.

If he told me—if he just told me—I wouldn’t need to keep pulling strings and staging distractions.