Page 47 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

T HE SUN SPILLS THROUGH THE LARGE WINDOWS like it’s trying to rip me out of a dream, but I don’t want to move. Not today.

After last night— fuck —I could spend the rest of my life in this bed, buried inside Brie, watching the world fall apart outside as long as I got to keep her close.

My sheets still smell like her. That addictive mix of rose and sex and skin that’s already seared itself into my memory.

It makes my cock twitch beneath the covers, and I think about pulling her back into me, spreading her open and fucking her until she forgets what it feels like not to be filled with my cum.

But when I reach across the mattress, my hand lands on nothing.

Empty sheets. Cold pillow.

My heart plunges into my stomach.

I open my eyes to confirm what I already know. She’s not here.

Gone. Just like the last time.

I stare at the dent in the pillow where her head rested, the imprint of her body still lingering like a ghost.

I knew this might happen. Hell, she told me she wasn’t sure she’d ever stop running. But she also told me I was the one person she regretted running from.

She let me lose myself in her. Body and soul. Only to vanish again—and take my fucking heart with her.

I sit up slowly, dragging both hands over my face before squinting into the light bleeding through the window .

The morning is too bright. Too still. And I wonder how far she’s gone this time. How long it’ll take me to find her. If this is just how it’s going to be from now on—me forever chasing a woman who cant bring herself to stay.

Then the doorknob twists.

The bedroom door creaks open.

Brie nudges it with her hip, balancing two steaming mugs in her hands. Her hair’s still a mess, sleep-tangled and wild. She’s wearing the same T-shirt from last night, and my sweatpants, rolled at the waist—just like she did that first time we met.

When she looks up and sees me, she smiles.

And I swear I feel it in my fucking chest, like a defibrillator shocking me back to life.

“You’re awake,” she says, kicking the door closed with her foot. “Your mom was making coffee, and I couldn’t resist. I wasn’t sure how you take it, so if it’s wrong, you can blame her.”

She hands me a mug and climbs back into bed beside me, long legs folded under her, sipping from her own cup.

I stare at her for a moment, not touching the coffee. Just watching her. Processing.

“You’re still here.”

She blinks, turning her head.

Then a small frown forms between her brows.

“You thought I left…”

“The bed was empty—”

“Again,” she finishes softly. “Shit. I’m sorry. I should’ve woken you before I got up. But you were sleeping so soundly, and I thought maybe… maybe you deserved a few extra minutes.”

I don’t wait for her to say more.

I reach for her, wrap an arm around her waist, and pull her between my legs until her back presses into my chest. She gasps, careful not to spill her coffee, and I run my nose along the curve of her neck .

Her skin still smells like sex, like sweat and need—but underneath it all, that same soft rose scent lingers. As if it’s built into her blood. Coded into her DNA.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, lips brushing her throat. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

She smiles, leaning into me, her body relaxing like she’s finally safe.

She tilts her chin, offering me her mouth, and I meet her halfway. Her lips taste like everything I’ve ever wanted—so much better than coffee.

“I’m happy I’m here too,” she whispers.

I look down at the mugs in our hands—matching in shape, but not in contents. Whatever’s in hers is lighter than pure cream, while mine’s dark as sin.

“What are you drinking?” I ask.

“Coffee,” she says like it’s obvious.

I raise a brow. “That looks like a cup of milk.”

“It’s not,” she huffs. “I just like my coffee light.”

I lean forward, take a sip from her cup, and barely manage to swallow before groaning.

“That’s fucking milk , Brie.”

She scrunches her nose, mock-offended and adorable as hell. “Well, sorry we can’t all enjoy bitter bean water like you!”

I throw my head back and bark a laugh. Deep, loud, unfiltered. She laughs too—shoulders shaking, her voice bright and golden.

We laugh until coffee sloshes over the edges of our mugs—dark on mine, pale on hers—dripping down the ceramic and onto the sheets.

I don’t care. I’ll probably have to change them again soon anyway.

It feels almost abnormally normal to sit here in my mother’s house and laugh about coffee with her.

There’s no tension in the air. No threat slithering under the floorboards. Just warmth and domestic ease—the kind I’ve rarely allowed myself to imagine. I’ve never felt more free from the usual confines of my life back in the city .

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the work I do—because I do, and I’ve earned the rewards that come with it—but this ?

This is something else entirely.

This is peace.

This is Brie, finally letting me in.

Since we came here, it’s like she’s let herself bloom—petal by petal, wall by wall. She’s softer, slower to glare, quicker to smile.

And god , watching every second of it happen has become the most addictive part of my day.

Her skin, once pale from too many nights spent hiding in the dark, has taken on a delicate rose flush—dusting her cheeks and nose, staining her knees and knuckles.

Her subtle freckles often get lost within her blushing face, and when the light hits her hazel eyes, I swear I can see every shade of gold, green, and brown the world’s ever produced.

And her smile…

I’m not talking about that sultry smirk she uses when she’s seducing someone, or the sharp grin she tosses out with her sarcasm like a dagger.

No—I mean her real smile. Unbidden. Honest.

The one that hits me like a sucker punch and makes me want to do two things at once: tell her every terrible joke I know just to keep it growing, and then fuck her so thoroughly that she can’t stop smiling for the next week.

If I could, I’d stay here with her forever.

But I know better than to trust something this simple.

Our lives were never built for peace.

My phone buzzes on the bedside table, vibrating so hard it nearly leaps off the edge. I grab it fast, frowning when I see the blocked caller ID.

I already have a hunch at who it is.

Brie shifts like she’s about to slide off my lap, but I keep her in place with one arm around her waist as I answer.

She’s in this now. And I’m done pretending she’s not.

“Hello?”

“We need coffee creamer in the break room,” says a voice on the other end .

Brie raises an eyebrow at me.

“What flavour?” I ask, not missing a beat. “Original or vanilla?”

“Peppermint.”

Relief pours through me like ice water. That’s the right answer to our security code.

“Hey, Lee. Everything good where you are?”

“That depends on your definition of good,” Lee mutters. “I’m fine—still outside the city, still breathing. But we’ve got a problem.”

My grip on Brie tightens slightly.

“One of ours? The Songbirds?”

“No,” Lee says. “The Songbirds have actually been quiet the last few days. Too quiet. The others are fine, as far as I can tell.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’s something I think you need to see. Do you have access to a computer?”

I lean over, open the drawer beside the bed, and pull out the old laptop I keep stashed here. I ripped out the Wi-Fi antenna years ago—it only connects via hardline, making it significantly less traceable

I perch it on my knee beside Brie and plug in the Ethernet cable from the drawer.

“Okay. Got it. What am I looking for?”

“I sent you a news article from yesterday,” Lee says. “Through King’s server.”

Good. That means it’s secure. Our internal server is heavily encrypted—nearly impossible to trace unless someone has access on the inside.

I open the file.

One look at the headline and my stomach drops like a stone.

A woman was found murdered just outside my apartment building. Beaten. Left in a dumpster.

Just like Isabella.

“What the fuck…” I mutter, cold fury setting in as I scan the words .

Beside me, Brie goes still. Her eyes skim the article, and her breath catches.

“Damon…” she whispers, her voice tight with realization.

She sees it too. The timing. The method. The message.

This wasn’t random.

This is personal.

There are only three groups of people in the world who know exactly how Isabella died—my inner circle, the Songbirds, and Brie.

It has to be the Songbirds.

This is their response to Xander’s death. A retaliation. A message carved in blood and left in plain sight.

But it’s more than that.

It’s not just a murder. It’s a replication .

Calculated. Methodical. A recreation of the worst night of my life—designed not to weaken my network, but to break me .

The Songbirds don’t usually operate like this. They're blunt instruments. Bloodthirsty. Loud. They kill people who cross them, sure—but not with this kind of psychological precision. Not unless they’re trying to make a point.

Usually, they'd go after someone I love. Rip them away just to make me bleed. But they can’t. I’ve buried those I couldn’t protect. And the ones I still love? I’ve kept them locked up tight—hidden in shadows and armed with more protection than most cartel bosses.

So this… this is the only weapon they have left.

Memory.

Pain.

The past.

“There’s more, unfortunately,” Lee says grimly. “They didn’t disclose who she was in the article, but I did some digging. Managed to get my hands on the autopsy report from the coroner’s office.”

He pauses like he doesn’t even want to finish the thought.

“It’s Jennifer Pietro.”

My blood turns to ice.

Jennifer .

She was Oswald’s wife.

We killed him just before Brie showed up. I’d gotten her set up with her sister in Kensington.

Jennifer shouldn’t have been anywhere near my part of town. She was supposed to be safe. Far away from the Songbirds. Far away from all of this.

“Who’s that?” Brie asks.