Page 40 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

W E’VE BEEN DRIVING FOR NEARLY FIVE HOURS, highway lanes stretching endlessly ahead of us, each mile pulling me further away from the wreckage I left behind.

I’m not sure where Damon is headed until the sign flashes by— Welcome to Rhode Island.

I turn my head, slow. Damon keeps his eyes forward.

He shrugged off his coat two hours ago, and now the late-afternoon sun glints through the tinted windows, dancing across the snow-caked shoulders of the road.

“Damon... where are we going?” I ask, even though a sinking part of me already knows.

His fingers drum the steering wheel once, twice.

“Somewhere the Songbirds would never think to look,” he says. “Because they don’t know it exists—no one does. Not even my inner circle. Just me, the nurses who come twice a week… and now, very recently, you.”

And there it is.

The weight of it settles like concrete in my lungs.

He’s taking me there .

The place he’s protected with every secret he’s ever buried.

A place not even Monroe or Chavez knows exists.

A place that belongs to Damon’s real life—the one he doesn’t talk about.

Of all people, why would he bring me ?

After everything I’ve done… I wouldn’t trust me enough to bring here .

I wasn’t expecting him to come looking for me—not in Staten Island. Not in that house. Not after I betrayed his trust and ran.

I understand now why he kept the truth about Alexander from me. I had begun to figure it out the moment I saw Xander’s face.

The logic of it all clicked the moment I watched The Speakeasy burst into flames.

But logic doesn’t untie a noose.

The need for revenge is like strangling yourself slowly. You keep pulling at the rope, hoping it’ll break. Hoping you’ll break. But the only real release comes when the rope snaps.

And it should have snapped.

I killed Alexander. I put a bullet in the man who murdered my family. That should’ve been the moment the air returned to my lungs. That should’ve been the relief.

So why don’t I feel relieved?

If anything, I only feel worse.

Damon takes the exit for Point Judith. From here, he doesn’t follow the GPS anymore, which tells me he’s been here enough times to memorize the route. He buys a one-way ferry ticket to Block Island, and when the next boat docks, we drive onto the lower deck and park behind a few other vehicles.

Damon steps out first.

I follow only because I don’t want to be alone.

We climb the stairs to the upper deck. It’s nearly empty—off-season silence settling over the ferry like a sheet.

I find a bench and sit, curling into my trench coat. Damon leans forward against the railing, his back to me, shoulders squared against the wind. The waves slap the hull, grey and frothing like they’re trying to claw us under.

And I watch him—watch the man who’s offering me safety after I betrayed him. Who held me like I wasn’t already ruined from the start.

And I feel it again.

That guilt. Cold and gnawing .

If anyone else saw us like this—knew what I’d put him through—they’d probably assume he was taking me out to Block Island to kill me.

But he’s not.

He listened. Held me while I broke apart in the middle of my dead sister’s bloodstain. He told me I was fire and thorns and survival incarnate.

And I believed him. Not because I deserve to. Because I wanted to.

But wanting doesn’t mean I’m worthy.

That’s the truth of it. I know for a fact I don’t deserve his protection. I never have.

We don’t say a word the entire ferry ride.

Not on the deck.

Not when we return to the car.

Not even as Damon steers us through the quiet little town of New Shoreham.

Everything here feels muted—slowed, softened, like the world itself is holding its breath. The further west we go, the more private it feels.

Paved roads fade into gravel and dirt. Trees thicken and stretch over the narrow path like they’re shielding something sacred. The GPS on the dash starts begging for internet, but Damon just mutes the alert without even glancing at the screen.

He doesn’t need directions.

Eventually, the forest peels back into a clearing that opens to the ocean. A small white house sits perched on a hill overlooking a rocky beach, the setting sun catching the rust-orange roof and making it glow like a smoldering fire.

It’s remote. Pristine. Untouched by anything cruel.

The chimney puffs smoke into the winter air, only to have it swept away by the wind off the water. Damon pulls the car into a patch of grass to the side of the house—the spot already worn down by tire tracks.

As soon as the engine cuts, the porch light flicks on.

A woman steps into the sunset’s glow wearing red plaid pyjamas and a thick beige sweater that looks hand-knit. Her dark hair is streaked with silver, pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes crinkle when she sees Damon, and a smile stretches across her pale face—wide and warm and alive .

I climb out of the passenger seat just as Damon meets her at the stairs.

He bends down into her embrace, letting her wrap her arms around his shoulders.

Her thin hand moves across his back in slow, familiar circles.

She whispers something to him, but I can’t make out the words over the crash of the waves around us.

Then her eyes land on me.

She releases Damon and steps forward.

“And who might this be?” she asks, her voice coated in kindness and curiosity.

Damon looks over his shoulder at me, then back at her with a soft half-smile.

“This is Brie,” he says.

He heads toward the trunk to grab our bags, giving me a moment to catch my breath. When he returns, he stands at my side.

“Brie, meet Rebecka King.”

King.

My breath catches.

“Your… mom?” I whisper.

He nods.

Of course . I should’ve known.

He told me he got her out when he left the Songbirds—that he’d bought her a house somewhere safe. Far enough to be hidden, close enough that he could still reach her.

He never told anyone where.

And now I’m standing on her doorstep.

The guilt that pierces me is a knife in my sternum.

I came this close to endangering her—his mother —because I couldn’t see past my own selfish agenda.

And he still brought me here.

Rebecka doesn’t hesitate. She steps down from the porch slowly, using the railing until her slippers hit the ground. Then she walks straight to me and wraps her arms around me .

“It’s nice to meet you, Brie,” she says gently.

Her hug is stronger than I expect—solid and enveloping.

Safe .

It feels like something inside me breaks and fuses back together all at once.

No one’s hugged me like this since my mom died.

She smells like cinnamon and cloves and winter holidays.

Like mulled wine and old stories.

Like someone who knows how to hold grief without being swallowed by it.

Tears prick my eyes without warning. Before I can stop myself, I’m wrapping my arms around her and burying my face in the soft wool of her sweater.

“Oh, sweetie…” she murmurs, rubbing my back the same way she rubbed Damon’s. “You’ve had a long day, haven’t you? That drive alone is enough to undo anyone. Why don’t we get you inside and warmed up? I’ll make us some tea.”

I nod, trying to hold myself together.

“Thank you. That sounds… really nice.”

She loops her arm around mine like I’m the one who needs steadying and leads me gently up the steps.

It’s maternal in a way I forgot existed.

Natural. Unconditional.

And I hate how badly I want to lean into it.

Everything about this feels impossible.

Too normal. Too warm. Too kind .

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be allowed to feel this.

When I glance over my shoulder, Damon is standing at the edge of the grass with both our bags in hand. There’s a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes catch mine for a beat.

And it hits me—he wanted this.

Not just for me to survive. For me to have this.

But he shouldn’t.

Neither of them should feel safe with me here.

Because I’m not safe.

I’m not good.

And I don’t deserve either of them.

D AMON’S MOTHER’S HOUSE reminds me of a beachy version of my grandmother’s place back in Alberta.

The floors are polished pinewood, warm and creaky underfoot.

The walls are lined with bright white horizontal panelling, drawing light from the last threads of the sunset bleeding through the large sliding doors on the far side of the house.

The whole place smells like salt, woodsmoke, and a faint hint of cinnamon.

Rebecka leads me into the living room and gestures to the striped couch. It’s soft and low to the ground, upholstered in white with faded navy and beige lines that echo the rug beneath my feet and the curtains framing the windows.

She disappears into the small country-style kitchen off to the left, and Damon sets our bags by the door before quietly joining her.

“Go sit, Mamá ,” he says gently, his Spanish accent slipping through as he reaches past her for the mugs in the lower cabinet.

“I can make tea, Damon,” she replies, her tone playfully defensive.

“So can I,” he says, smiling like he already knows she’s going to lose this fight.

She huffs, accepting defeat—but her smile lingers as she pinches his cheek. “Fine. But only because you’ve brought company.”

Then she turns her focus back to me.

I tense instinctively.

She walks over and lowers herself carefully onto the couch beside me, still smiling like I’m not a live grenade her son just dropped on her doorstep.

“I’m sorry,” she says, brushing a loose silver strand behind her ear. “I feel like I didn’t really introduce myself properly. My name is Rebecka.”

“I know,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I mean—I know you’re Damon’s mom. And this is… your house.”

“Yes, both true,” she says with a quiet chuckle. “And you’re The Black Rose . The first person to ever get through my son’s security network.”

The blood drains from my face.

That name. It doesn’t sound like mine anymore.

Shame pools in my stomach, heat crawling up my spine. But then Rebecka reaches out and places a hand on my knee—light, but grounding. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughs.

“I have to say, it was impressive,” she says.

There’s something genuinely proud in her tone, and it knocks the wind out of me.

“Damon was so flustered on the phone, I almost didn’t recognize him. Anyone who can rattle him like that has earned their seat on this couch.”

“ Mamá. ”

Damon warning tone travels from the kitchen. He steps into the room carrying a wooden tray with three ceramic mugs, steam rising in gentle spirals.

He sets the tray on the coffee table and spoons two teaspoons of sugar into one of the mugs before handing it to his mother, like he’s done it a thousand times.

When Rebecka takes her mug, her hands tremble under its weight.

Damon watches her closely, barely blinking as he picks up his own tea, ready to intervene the second she needs him.

When she lifts the cup to her lips, a thin stream sloshes over the rim—and both of us instinctively reach out to steady it in her hands.

She snaps her gaze over the edge of the mug, eyes sharp despite her gentle features.

“I’m fine ,” she says, lowering the cup to her lap as her stern gaze zeroes in on Damon. “I’ve been living alone for a long time. I think I can manage a cup of tea.”

Damon retreats, sinking slightly into his seat across from us. “Sorry. It’s just a reflex. ”

She exhales through her nose and gives a small shake of her head. “Just because I have Parkinson’s doesn’t make me incapable, mijo .”

The word hits me like a bullet.

Parkinson’s.

Of course.

The nurses. The secrecy. The house no one knows about.

That’s why he protected her so fiercely. That’s why he kept this place hidden here—not just to keep away from The Songbirds, but because she’d never survive if they found her.

If they tortured her the same way they did Isabella…

And I…

I almost exposed her.

I sit there frozen as the guilt barrels into me, heavier than anything I felt at The Speakeasy or in that blood-soaked living room.

She’s his greatest weakness. And I nearly painted a bright red target on her.

All for information that didn’t fix anything. That didn’t bring Amie back. That didn’t make the hole in my chest feel any less hollow.

My stomach knots.

“Sorry,” I whisper, choking past the lump in my throat.

I place the mug back on the tray, the ceramic clinking too loudly against the wood.

I don’t meet their eyes. “I’m… really tired.”

Rebecka studies me for a moment before she glances at Damon and gives him a small nod. “Of course. Damon, why don’t you show her to the guest room?”

I start to open my mouth—to say I can find it myself—but he’s already up, already has my duffle bag in his hand. He leads me down the narrow hallway, our footsteps amplified by the creaks of the old pine floor.

At the end of the hall, he opens a door into a small, sun-drenched room with a wrap-around porch that overlooks the ocean. The bed is made with soft linen sheets, pale blue like the froth on the beach .

I take the bag from his hand and step into the room. My fingers curl around the edge of the door.

But before I can close it, Damon slides his foot into the frame. His palm presses gently against the wood.

“Brie—”

“I am tired,” I say quietly, not bothering to fake a smile. “I didn’t make that up.”

“I know,” he says, his voice low. “But it’s also a decent way to shut yourself out.”

I don’t respond right away. I stare at the floorboards between us, at the invisible line I’ve drawn.

There’s a beat of silence before he sighs.

“You know, I didn’t bring you here to torture you with the truth.”

I swallow hard, rolling my lips together.

“Maybe you didn’t,” I murmur. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t deserve it.”

He flinches like my words physically struck him.

Maybe they did.

Before he can say anything else, I close the door softly and then lock it.

I don’t want his kindness.

I don’t want Rebecka’s warmth.

I don’t deserve any of it.