Page 34 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

“ B EAUTIFUL. L ETHAL. M INE.”

Hours later, those words still echo in my head like they’re etched into my fucking bones. They linger louder than the ache between my legs, louder than the burn in my thighs from how many times he made me come.

God .

The way he looked at me—like I was something precious.

Like I wasn’t made of vengeance and razor wire.

And his monster of a cock.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget how it felt to take every inch of him. How it felt to be full in a way I hadn’t been since before the blood and gunfire.

Now I’m laying next to him under silk sheets that feel too soft for someone like me. The room is dark, moonlight smothered behind heavy curtains, but I can still make out the shape of him.

His face is angled slightly toward me on the pillow, brows smoothed, lashes resting against his cheek. For once, all the tension is gone. His lips part gently with every breath, slow and deep. Calm.

He looks peaceful.

But it hurts to look at him.

Because I know what I have to do now.

Part of me—probably the part still aching from the way he held me, whispered to me, fucked me like I was already his—wants to stay in this bed. Wants to let the truth stay buried beneath skin and silence.

But I can’t .

Not when there are still questions clawing at my insides.

Not when I still see Amie’s face every time I close my eyes.

Not when I remember the sound of her scream.

Since the day I woke up in that hospital bed, I’ve asked the same question over and over: Why?

Why did they come after my family?

Why am I still alive?

If the universe left me breathing after that night, it has to be for a reason—and I refuse to believe that reason was to fall into the arms of the man protecting her killer.

No. It has to be so I can end this . So I can burn it all down and scatter the ashes.

So maybe—hopefully—I can figure out how to live again.

Last night doesn’t change that. Nothing can.

That’s the truth I tried to remind myself before we fell into this bed. Before his hands rewired my body and his mouth stole pieces of me I swore I’d never give away.

There’s no version of this that doesn’t end in up in flames.

And after tonight, I’m almost certain it’ll be my fault.

I peel the sheets back slowly, easing out of bed without letting the mattress shift too much beneath me. My legs tremble slightly, still weak from the night we had, but I grit through it.

I round the bed quietly, eyes darting between Damon’s sleeping face and the floor. I find my underwear and shorts in a little pile and slide them on carefully, then scan the floor for his jeans.

Near the foot of the bed, I find them crumpled with all his other clothes. I crouch low, my fingers searching through his pockets.

My heart hammers as I fumble past coins, his wallet. The faint scent of his cologne is still clinging to the fabric, but I try not to let it distract me.

Then—there. A cold metal ring.

His keys.

My ticket into The Speakeasy’s security room .

The place I’m sure they’ve been keeping that burner phone locked away—along with every picture of the man who ruined my life.

I curl my fingers around the ring and gently pull them out, slowing down my movements so they don’t jingle.

When they’re free, I glance at Damon again.

He hasn’t moved. Still asleep. Still unaware.

He looks... content.

And the guilt slices through me like a dull, serrated knife.

But I straighten, the keys tight in my palm.

I take a moment to memorize the relaxed line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, the peace I know I’ll never see on his face again.

This moment is the eye of the storm. The last breath before it all goes to hell.

“I’m sorry.” I mouth the words, my lips moving silently in the dark, hoping he’ll feel them somehow when this is over.

When it all breaks.

When I break him .

I tiptoe into the hallway, closing Damon’s bedroom door as quietly as I can. The soft click echoes down the hall like I just slammed the door and yelled “I’m guilty!” for good measure.

My feet carry me next door to my room—

I wince at the thought.

It’s not my bedroom. Just a bedroom. A space in Damon’s fortress that I briefly occupied.

The moment I push the door open, I find the clothes I laid out on the bed, alongside the black duffle bag I swiped from a closet in one of the other rooms. I’ve already decided that my suitcase will have to stay behind. It’s too big. Too noticeable.

Instead, I’ve packed light—and portable. Inside the duffle is everything I need—clothes, laptop, chargers, and all my bathroom essentials. I have to leave behind some of the lotions and creams Damon grabbed in haste at my apartment .

Little parts of me will still linger in this room when I’m long gone.

Not ideal. But necessary.

The last thing I’ve slipped inside is a single photo frame.

The album is too big and bulky to take, so I took all the pictures out of their protective sleeves and pressed them between the frame’s backing.

There’s a picture of Amie at the ice rink, of Dad holding burnt birthday pancakes, Mom in her robe with curlers still in—all the memories I keep, but can never seem to look at too long—hidden but safe in the back of the frame.

I peel off my T-shirt and shorts from earlier, folding them tightly and slipping them into the duffle’s side pocket. Then I slide into a black crew-neck sweater and fitted jeans.

Unassuming. Mobile. Just another shadow.

I tie my hair into a tight high ponytail before slinging the bag over my shoulder with a practiced motion, and I cross the room once more.

When I open the door, I pause in the threshold.

The hallway is quiet. Still.

I glance toward Damon’s door, and my chest does that thing again—that treacherous, suffocating ache .

Like my body is begging me not to do this.

Like my soul already know I’ll never be the same after tonight.

But I don’t listen.

I square my shoulders, shut the door softly behind me, and head toward the elevator.

My shoes are already lined up next to Damon’s in the entryway, my trench coat hanging beside his like it belongs there.

The sight is too domestic. Too settled.

Like I let myself get comfortable when I always knew I couldn’t stay.

The elevator comes fast. I step inside and hit the button for the first floor, my heart pounding like it’s trying to burst out of my ribs.

The ride feels longer than it ever has .

Maybe because this is it—the moment I cross the point of no return.

By the time I step out into the night, it’s almost four A.M. The streets are hushed. Sleeping. Even the air feels colder, like it knows what I’m about to do.

The Speakeasy across the street is winding down, the last few patrons trickling out in pairs, their laughter dulled by exhaustion. I slip into the shadows, moving fast—keeping my head down as I duck under the streetlights and security cameras I’ve already mapped out around the front entrance.

The door to The Speakeasy opens just as a group of women exit, and I slip in past the group, trying to blend.

Inside, the lighting is low, the music nearly off, and there’s a haze of end-of-shift fatigue hovering in the air.

It makes my task a little easier.

Connor’s at the bar, glass in hand—probably soda since he’s on the clock. He’s watching the group of men around the pool table with the kind of intensity that makes your skin prickle.

If I breathe wrong, I’m sure he’ll notice.

I keep my head down and hug the walls, making a slow sweep through the shadows as I head in the direction of the restrooms—conveniently located next to the employee-only entrance to the back room.

I duck through the staff doors and into the familiar concrete hallway. The chill of it creeps down my spine.

This part of the building has no glamour, no disguise. Just steel and cement and silence. It smells faintly like gun oil and industrial cleaner.

I make my way toward the security office. I don’t even need to look for the sign on the door.

I remember the way—from that very first time.

I pull out Damon’s keyring, flicking through them one by one until a heavy silver one fits into the lock with a mechanical click .

Got it.

I push the door open just enough to slip inside, half-expecting Lee to still be hunched over his screens, eyes bloodshot and hands typing like the devil’s whispering in his ear.

But the room is empty.

The hum of servers and soft whir of a backup drive fill the silence. I shut the door quietly and lock it from the inside before crossing to the desk.

Lee’s password screen glows in the dark. His setup is as beautiful as I remember it—three high-resolution monitors, a top-of-the-line processor, and enough RAM to give any tech-nut a wet dream.

It’s all hardware I would’ve drooled over six months ago.

Now, it’s just another wall to scale.

I lower myself into his leather chair, flexing my fingers in front of me until my knuckles crack.

Lee’s good.

But I’m better.

I set my duffle down on Lee’s desk and pull out my laptop, plugging it into his setup with fingers that feel colder than they should.

I run a basic encryption decoder—something I designed and programmed.

I taught myself how to build one back in middle school when I used to hack my way into grade databases and teacher laptops for fun.

Within sixty seconds, I’m in.

Lee’s desktop is cleaner than I expected it to be—at least on the surface. But it doesn’t take long to find the vault beneath the wallpaper. Every folder is locked with multiple passwords and layered encryptions.

I’d be impressed if it weren’t so irritating at this very moment.

He’s smart. He’s been burned before.

By me.

I navigate past the folders on Kings Security intel and private clients. They’re tempting, of course, but not what I’m here for.

Deep within his directory, I find solid gold.

Lee has an entire database—one he frequently updates—on every Songbird member, past and present, as well as anyone that has ever had ties to them .

He even has a file on me.

I click on it, and my stomach tightens.

Photos. Public records. Screenshots and scraps from the deep web.

I’m listed as a potential threat.

Not surprising—but it hits different seeing it in writing, seeing my face flagged like I’m some kind of ticking time bomb everyone needs to be wary of.

And he’s not wrong.

I find the photos I’m looking for in a recently updated section of the database, listed under Songbird chain of command —and what I find makes my stomach drop like a stone.

They’ve been added into the file for a man named Alexander O’Doyle . I don’t even have to go looking through Lee’s database to know where I’ve heard the name before.

Matthias O’Doyle is the leader of the Songbird gang.

And Alexander is his son.

My blood runs cold.

Is that why Damon kept it from me? Because of the deal he made with Matthias? He said the Songbirds treated him like family. Was Alexander like a brother to him?

The questions come fast, hard, and unrelenting—splintering me from the inside until a pounding headache anchors itself behind my eyes.

But none of them matter.

Not really. Not right now .

Because Alexander O’Doyle killed my sister.

He helped kill my parents.

He shattered my world and tried to bury me under the rubble.

And I am going to end him.

My hands tremble as I transfer his full profile onto my laptop—every file, every photo, every detail Lee managed to compile. Then I open R.O.S.E., drag his image into the facial match system, and press Enter .

The familiar loading bar begins its crawl, and my palms start sweating immediately. I wipe them down the sides of my jeans, again and again, trying to focus on the screen instead of the rage boiling beneath my skin.

He’s so close. I can feel it.

But the search times out.

No match.

Just out of reach. Again.

It’s four A.M., so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ll have to try again when the sun comes up. Hope that he puts his face in front of a camera so R.O.S.E. can catch him live.

I snap my laptop shut, my jaw clenched so tight I think I might crack a molar.

I gather my things and slip out of the security office, bypassing the main bar and sliding through the rear hallway.

I take the same route I did the night Damon first brought me here—past his little torture cell, and out the side entrance.

I press my back to the alley wall and slink through the shadows until the dim glow of the streetlights stretches far enough to touch me.

A yellow cab idles at the curb—likely waiting for some drunk girl in stilettos to stumble out of the bar and need a ride home.

Instead, he gets me.

I slide into the back seat, tossing my duffle beside me like it weighs nothing—when in truth it feels like it’s packed with bricks.

Regret. Rage.

My sister’s ghost.

The driver glances at me in the mirror. His thick beard hides his mouth, but his dark and tired eyes meet mine.

They’re familiar.

Dark brown. Deep-set.

Like a certain someone I just left behind in bed.

Someone I just robbed in the dead of night.

Someone I may never see again—not unless it’s to kill me.

“Where to, miss?”

I pause for a second too long .

I can’t go back to my apartment—it’ll be the first place Damon checks, and the cameras he installed still feed straight into King’s Eye.

Instead, I give him the address of a coffee shop, one that I know has decent Wi-Fi. He nods once and pulls away from the curb.

I turn my head toward the window as the cab rolls forward, and my gaze is drawn up—straight to the penthouse windows across the street.

The one where I left Damon sleeping. Trusting.

Mine .

My chest constricts around the memory of that word on his tongue, like a cage that doesn’t want to let it go.

But I can’t afford to feel that right now. I can’t afford to second-guess the plan I’ve spent six months building.

Damon knew who Alexander was. He chose to keep that from me. Maybe to protect me. Maybe to protect himself .

Does it even matter which?

I clench my jaw and look away from the window.

This is what I came here to do.

This is what I was always supposed to do.

I’ll wait out the sunrise. Feed Alexander’s photo into R.O.S.E. on loop until it hits. And then I’ll find him before Damon finds me.

Because this story doesn’t end with love.

It ends in blood.