Page 43 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

“I was thirteen,” he says, setting his empty mug down on the little table between us. “But she’d been showing signs before then. Small things, you know? Her hands shaking. Trouble writing. Dropping things. We didn’t know what it was at first.”

He pauses, like he’s weighing whether to tell me the next part.

“When it got worse, she couldn’t go out as much. So I dropped out of school. Picked up a few part-time jobs so we wouldn’t lose the apartment.”

My grip on the mug tightens.

“At thirteen?”

He nods like it’s no big deal. “You’d be surprised how many people are willing to hire a desperate kid under the table. Easier to stiff them on wages. No paperwork. No taxes.”

There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out a laugh—bitter and hollow. “That’s how I ended up with the Songbirds. They found me scraping together change, offered me a job I couldn’t afford to turn down. And once I was in... I wasn’t allowed to leave. But you know the rest of that story already.”

I look over at him, his face shadowed by porchlight and nightfall, and wonder what kind of boy grows into a man like this.

Fierce. Broken.

But still soft around the people he loves.

I used to think Damon was just muscle and strategy. A criminal who happened to be more disciplined than the rest.

But I see it now.

He didn’t become dangerous because he wanted to be. He became dangerous because the world gave him no other option .

I set my mug down on the table next to his and lean back into the chair, tugging the sherpa-lined blanket tighter around my shoulders.

“I like learning new things about you,” I say before I can stop myself. The words just fall out, raw and unfiltered.

His smirk curls slowly at the corners. “I’m surprised there’s still things you don’t already know about me.”

I laugh. “Well, unless you spend every waking hour vlogging your life, there are always secrets to unfold in person.”

He watches me quietly for a beat, then tilts his head.

“I like learning things about you too,” he says. “But there’s one thing that’s got me a little stumped.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“You mentioned that you, your mom, and your sister used to do weekly spa nights—bubble baths, face masks, scrubs,” he says, his voice dipping lower as he leans closer. “But I don’t think that tub in your room’s been used once. Why not?”

I snort.

“Don’t tell me you have a camera in there too?”

He rolls his eyes. “No. But my room’s next door. I know the difference between the sound of a shower and a filling bathtub.”

“Right.”

I glance back out at the dark water.

“I won’t lie—it was tempting. But... I didn’t want to relax. Didn’t want to let my guard down.”

There’s a pause.

Silence stretches out between us like a third wool blanket, thick enough to mute the sound of the waves.

“Didn’t,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“You said didn’t .” He grins, teeth flashing. “As in, past tense. Which implies now you do .”

Heat creeps up my neck.

Before I can reply, he’s already rising from his seat, blanket falling behind him .

Then he’s lifting me from mine, like I weigh nothing at all.

My breath catches in my throat as I clutch his cotton shirt, my own blanket forgotten on the porch as he carries me inside.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

The house is quiet as he moves down the hallway and into his bedroom—larger than mine across the hall, with a nice view of the back yard and the ocean.

But he doesn’t stop at the bed.

He walks straight into the ensuite bathroom.

It’s smaller than the one back in the penthouse, but still beautiful. Pale blue walls. Gleaming white tiles. A walk-in shower in the corner.

But it’s the tub that steals the breath from my lungs.

It’s huge—triangular and deep, built into a raised corner under a little foggy window.

A tub that was made for soaking. For forgetting.

He sets me down on the marble counter next to it, then turns and starts the water. Bubble bath. Steam. The scent of lavender fills the room as he swirls the foam with his hand.

I watch him, stunned silent, until he finally turns back to me.

His palms plant on either side of my thighs, caging me in without trapping me.

“Damon... you didn’t have to do this,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I know. I wanted to.”

That flutter in my chest is back.

No, not a flutter— a storm.

A riot of wings in my ribcage.

His gaze drags down my body, leaving heat in its wake. His hand brushes my thigh, fingers just grazing the thin fabric of my leggings.

“Do you need my help getting out of these clothes, little rose?”

His voice is so soft, so reverent, it makes me shiver.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tug. Just rests his fingers against my waistband, waiting .

I never used to think about how important consent would become to me—how vital the pause is, the moment he takes to make sure I feel safe.

That I always have a choice.

The silent promise that no will always mean no .

But I want this. I want him .

And not just this slow, reverent side of him either. I want the part he tries so hard to cage—the part that growls beneath his breath when I touch him.

I want his sinful mouth, his bruising grip, his hand curled around my throat while he kisses me like I’m air and fire all at once.

I want to be devoured.

I want to be undone .

I want him to fill me. To consume me like a blazing inferno. To burn me alive until the girl I used to be turns to ash and something new rises from the wreckage.

I don’t want to be The Black Rose —not tonight.

Not the hacker-turned-vigilante who seduces, manipulates, and strikes like a viper. She was built by pain. Armoured in vengeance.

And I’ll never be Brianna Rosenberg again either—not the soft girl who left for MIT, full of dreams and logic and untouched hope. She died in that house beside her parents. With Amie.

What I am now is a careful mix of the two.

A woman scorned and betrayed—but not lost .

One who’s healing, while also embracing that pain that once threatened to destroy her.

She still wants revenge.

But she also wants care. Affection. Warmth.

She remembers what it’s like to wish for things like love .

“Damon…”

I breathe his name like it’s my anchor.

My hands find his where they rest on my hips.

He stands frozen, though his eyes burn my skin with their intensity .

I curl my fingers over his, letting his fingertips press against my sides before I slip both our fingers into the waistband of my leggings.

“Please,” I murmur. “Help me.”

The sound that leaves his chest isn’t human—it’s a guttural, low growl that vibrates through his entire body and into mine, making my thighs clench as heat blooms deep in my core.

I slide off the counter in front of him until my feet are flat on the tile.

He helps me peel down my leggings and underwear, slow and steady, kneeling in front of me like he’s worshipping, not undressing.

His gaze never leaves my skin as he trails his hands down my legs, over the curve of my calves, and then off my ankles and feet, taking my socks with them.

His hands run all the way back up as the same slow pace, taking the time to trace every inch of my legs, every little birthmark and freckle, every tiny forgotten scar from my childhood.

My heart hammers in my chest at the thought of the worst one, still concealed by my oversized T-shirt.

That scar.

The scar.

Jagged and stark, carved into the soft skin of my chest like a permanent reminder that I lived while they died.

Dahlia’s cream helped fade it some. But I see it every time I look in the mirror. Every time I take off my clothes.

And now, so will he.

Suddenly, I want to run.

I want to shove past him, wrap myself in something safe, and disappear into the cold night air until the sea swallows me whole.

“Do you want me to stop?” Damon asks, his voice ragged but careful. He doesn’t move unless I ask him to, and his restraint makes my chest ache.

I shake my head. “No. I just… ”

I suck my lower lip between my teeth as his thumbs sweep gentle arcs across my hips.

He says nothing.

Doesn’t push.

Just waits.

I want this. I know I do.

But I’m scared what he might think when he sees me.

I can barely stand looking at myself in a mirror. I can only imagine what he’ll think when he looks at my chest and finds a gruesome reminder of my past staring him right in the face.

Will he even be able to stand looking at me?

Will he still want to touch me?

Will he still think I’m perfect when I’m so obviously not ?

“Use your words, mi rosa ,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Tell me what’s rattling that beautiful mind of yours.”

I take a breath that comes out shaky.

“Scars,” I say.

Just that one word, and it makes my chest shake.

“From your surgery?” he asks softly.

“And the bullet,” I nod, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t speak.

He turns me around until my pelvis is pressed against the counter, my palms bracing the cool marble. He stands behind me, and I watch through the mirror as he removes his belt, unbuttons his jeans.

Then his cock, hard as iron, slips between my thighs until the heavy heat of his body presses flush against mine.

The friction sends a jolt straight to my core. I roll my hips back into him, desperate for more.

He groans low in his throat as I quickly coat his shaft with my slick arousal.

Then, his hand slips under my shirt, skimming up the slope of my belly, ghosting higher.

He cups one breast. I’m not wearing a bra. I haven’t been since my shower after dinner .

My nipple peaks in his palm, aching with need—but all I can focus on is how close his fingers are to the scar nestled in the valley between my breasts.

I freeze, and he feels it.

His hips still. His hand pauses, brushing the raised edge of the scar.

And I wince.

The sound that leaves me is small, pathetic, like I’m trying to hide inside my own skin.

I’m ruining this. I know I am.