Page 36 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

O IL- P AN M OTORS LOOKS LIKE A GRAVEYARD with a fresh coat of rust on everything in sight.

It’s tucked just off the last exit of the Belt Parkway, not far from the gas station where Dad had stopped on the way home from the airport.

The memory of that day comes uninvited, like most of them do—biting and sweet, and completely useless now.

The garage itself is a squat. Weather-beaten concrete block wrapped in chain-link and topped with barbed wire that’s more for show than function.

A heavy sliding gate guards the front, shut tight today since it’s closed. The sign in the window is faded, the lettering chipped like the paint on the steel doors lining the shop’s main facade. Rows of gutted junkers litter the lot—stripped of their wheels, glass, and general worth.

If R.O.S.E. hadn’t flagged the CCTV footage of Alexander dragging his trash bins to the curb just before nine A.M.—still half-asleep and clearly running late—I would’ve assumed the place was empty.

But that one lazy mistake?

It’s why he dies today.

I tighten my grip on the gun in my hand, circling to the side entrance. It’s locked, of course, but it’s a simple passcode lock—the kind you can find on Amazon for cheap—and based on Alexander’s recent revenue, I doubt he can afford any other security measures.

I did some digging in the time it took for me to get a hit on Alexander.

He dropped out of high school at sixteen, likely to take on more responsibilities with the Songbirds.

He only started working at this mechanic shop a few months ago and has had little-to-no contact with the Songbirds since—at least from what I was able to find.

Apparently, the previous owner died right before Alexander took over the property. Given his reputation, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alexander had something to do with that, but there’s no proof.

I already have a guess at the door code.

He’s predictable. Lazy. Born in 1997.

Beep.

The deadbolt disengages.

“Idiot,” I mutter, pushing the door open with a soft click.

Inside, it smells like oil and motor oil and old sweat.

A wall of tools lines the far end of the shop—most rusted, a few still usable.

Two of the car lifts are in use, vehicles raised like cadavers on display.

The floor is pockmarked concrete, stained in every imaginable way, and sloped toward steel drainage points.

It reminds me of the holding cell beneath The Speakeasy.

That memory shouldn’t sting. But it does.

A lump catches at the base of my throat—dry and jagged—and no matter how many times I try to swallow it down, it doesn’t move.

I can’t shake the weight of what I did. Of what I may have broken.

Damon .

His name carves its way into my thoughts like a blade.

He’ll be furious. Hurt. The others will never trust me again—not that they really did to begin with.

But this was never about trust. Or loyalty. Or Damon King.

This was about Amie .

It was always about Amie.

Damon wasn’t part of the plan—he was a detour.

A dangerous, beautiful detour.

I let myself feel something for him, and now that softness is blooming against my chest like a bruise I can’t stop poking .

No.

Not now.

I force the thoughts out and refocus.

Regret can wait. Guilt can wait.

Right now, I have a job to finish.

At the back of the garage is a narrow metal staircase leading up to a loft. The windows overlook the shop floor, but the blinds are drawn tight. It was probably meant to be an office, but the glow bleeding out from between the blinds and beneath the door tells me it’s something more.

A makeshift apartment. A safehouse.

Soon it’ll be a coffin.

I take the steps silently, my gun raised. I hear the faint static of a television—some old sitcom rerun playing in the background. It masks the soft creak of the stairs well enough.

The door at the top is hollow-core wood with a thin deadbolt—not designed with high-security in mind.

I brace myself against the wall and rail, take one step back for leverage, and slam my boot into the door just beneath the lock.

It splinters on impact.

The door swings inward, crashing against the wall with a sharp bang . My gun is already up.

Alexander bolts from his recliner like I lit him on fire.

He’s taller than I remember. Broader too—muscle packed on over what used to be lean and wiry control. His jaw’s thicker now, clenched like he still thinks he’s in charge of something.

But his eyes?

Those haven’t changed.

Ice cold. Unforgiving. Evil .

The same ones that have haunted my nightmares.

The same ones that watched my world burn.

He charges like a bull—wild, heavy, fast—and I don’t have time to line up a proper shot before he slams into me.

My finger jerks. The bullet punches the ceiling, sending plaster and dust snowing down as we crash into the wall.

He’s stronger than me. I knew he would be .

But strength isn’t everything.

Technique, however, is .

Monroe’s voice hisses in my head, sharp and rhythmic, like a drill sergeant:

Keep your thumbs out when you punch.

Aim for sensitive targets—eyes, throat, kidneys.

Don’t block. Evade

Keep your guard up.

And if you hit the ground, get the fuck back up.

I drive my fist into his side—just under the ribs, where muscle gives way to gut.

He grunts. His grip loosens for a beat, and I slam my elbow into his throat. Not hard enough to crush it—just enough to rattle him.

I don’t get away clean. His fist comes across my face hard, and I taste blood the moment my head snaps sideways. I drop to one knee, my cheek burning from the hit as my vision swims.

But I’m not down. Not for long.

He lunges for the gun, his fingers outstretched like desperate claws, but I sweep his legs from under him.

He hits the ground hard—tailbone first—and I hear a loud crack .

The sound that comes out of him is part cough, part scream. The gun skitters across the floor, metal screaming on bare concrete.

Before he can recover, I throw myself to the ground in a dive.

My fingers close around the grip.

I roll, lift—

He’s scrambling to get up.

I shoot.

BANG!

The bullet tears through his calf with a wet, meaty snap .

Alexander screams, thrashing as blood spurts from the wound in pulsing arcs. But even then, he doesn’t stop crawling.

Persistent little bastard .

I rise to my feet as my vision finally starts clearing, my pulse a silent roar in my ears. I move toward him—slowly, deliberately—raising the gun until it’s level with his skull.

When I reach him, I press my boot to his chest and shove. He flips onto his back, gasping. His icy blue eyes snap to mine—and widen.

That’s when I see it hit him.

Recognition—sharp and sudden, like a light switching on in a pitch black room.

And then—he smiles .

“Took you long enough, Black Rose ,” he drawls, voice thick with both pain and mockery.

My boot shifts, pressing hard into his ribs. There’s a crunch beneath my foot. A few of them.

“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss, my teeth clenched around the fire boiling in my blood.

I don’t lower the gun, even as I reach for his belt.

“Straight to business, huh?” he wheezes, choking around the pressure on his lungs.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Just yank the leather belt from his jeans and shift my boot to his throat.

I don’t press—not yet—but it’s a warning. One wrong breath and I’ll crush his windpipe like a paper straw.

I loop the belt around his wrists and cinch it tight, pulling until the leather bites into his skin and his face twists with pain. Then I haul him upright, shoving him against the wall like the piece of shit he is.

I press my gun back to his temple, my hand steady as a surgeon.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. Not even once. “You speak only when I tell you to. You don’t move unless you want another hole in your body. And if you so much as twitch in a way I don’t like, I’ll put the next bullet straight through your dick.”

He lets out a broken laugh—croaky and faint. “So generous.”

“If you follow my rules,” I continue, my eyes locked on his, “I might kill you faster than you deserve. ”

His expression flickers.

A spark of amusement gives way to something darker. Something wary.

But then he tips his head.

“Ask away.”

“Why.”

It’s the only word I say. Cold. Flat. Loaded with every implication.

I don’t need to elaborate. He knows exactly what I mean.

Alexander looks up at me from where he’s slumped, blood still leaking onto the concrete, and he shrugs.

“It’s all business, sweetheart.”

Wrong answer .

I tilt the gun down, aim it at his crotch. My finger shifts on the trigger—and it’s not a bluff. I want him to twitch.

Alarm flashes across his face. His legs shift slightly, the instinctive urge to protect himself betraying the calm he’s trying to fake.

“Look, I wasn’t the one who came up with the plan,” he says quickly, eyes locked on the gun’s muzzle. “I was looking for a way to take down Damon King. So was my partner. When he said he had a job that could get us closer, I followed his lead.”

“That job,” I bite, “was murdering my family.”

He shrugs again, this time slower. “Collateral. Necessary to get to the real prize.”

“And how does that get you any closer to Damon?” My voice sharpens, brittle with fury. “I didn’t even know who he was until after the attack.”

Alexander chuckles—low, humourless. “And yet, now you know more about him than anyone else.”

I freeze.

His words land so hard they hurt—like a cracked rib. Small, but sharp enough to buckle my breath.

No.

No, that couldn’t be it .

“That’s not true,” I say, too fast. “Your partner tried to kill me. He left me for dead. Why would he do that if he needed me alive?”

Alexander’s face twists—something between amusement and disdain. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

My stomach turns.