Page 49 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I N JUST UNDER AN HOUR, D AMON AND I

are packed. But neither of us feels ready to go.

I stand off to the side, duffle slung over my shoulder, while Damon says goodbye to his mom. The afternoon sun is just starting to crest over the trees outside the front window, casting everything in a quiet, golden glow.

It’s soft. But it’s also bittersweet.

“Be safe, mijo ,” Rebecka tells him, her voice steady despite the glassiness in her eyes. “And come back and visit me. I don’t want to wait another year to see you again.”

“I will, Mamá ,” he answers, his voice low and thick with something I recognize too well—grief disguised as patience.

She pulls him into a tight hug and holds on just a little too long, like she doesn’t fully trust herself to let go.

When she finally turns to me, I already feel my throat begin to close.

She reaches out her hand. “I expect you to come back too, sweetie.”

I step forward and let her fingers wrap around mine—warm, gentle, anchoring.

“I’d like that,” I admit softly.

And I mean it. Rebecka is the kind of motherly presence I haven’t felt in so long—soft around the edges but sharp in all the right ways. Her love doesn’t demand anything. It just exists. Easy. Effortless. Like breathing.

I didn’t expect to feel safe here. But I did.

And some part of me doesn’t want to let it go .

The snow crunches beneath our boots as we step out into the cold morning air. Damon hauls our bags into the trunk of the car, every movement practiced and precise. Like he’s done it too many times before.

But when he slides into the driver’s seat and glances over at me, the smile he offers doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He’s hurting too.

I don’t say anything—I don’t need to.

Because I understand what it means to ache for the impossible—to long for a family you can’t reach, even when they’re still alive.

Damon has his mother. She’s right here. But his world is wrapped in barbed wire. Coming home always costs him something.

And even if he could walk away from it all—The King’s Eye, the Songbirds, the entire system he built to protect others—he knows staying would only put her in the crosshairs of someone else’s gun.

To love someone enough to let them go…

I used to think that only existed in melancholic fairytales.

Now I know better.

Now I know it’s real.

I rest my head against the cold glass of the window as we pull away from the house, the road winding through snow-laced trees that seem to whisper stay .

But we can’t.

This place was a pause, not a destination. A breath held between storms.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what comes next.

Xander is dead. That was supposed to be my ending. The closure. The revenge fantasy fulfilled. But it didn’t fix anything. It didn’t stitch the scar back over my heart or fill the empty place where Amie used to live. It didn’t quiet the nightmares or ease the guilt.

It just cracked open a door I didn’t expect—one that pulled Damon and his closest into the crossfire.

One that made me wonder what the hell I’m really doing .

There’s still the second man from that night—the green-eyed one. But it’s like chasing smoke through a hurricane. No name. No trace. No whisper of a lead in six months. For all I know, he’s vanished. Changed his name. Died.

And even if I did find him…

Even if I looked him in the eye and watched him fall…

I know it wouldn’t bring Amie back.

It wouldn’t bring any of them back.

And for the first time, I’m starting to question if revenge is what I want anymore. If it ever really was.

Maybe I want something else now. Something that doesn’t leave Damon bleeding in my wake. Something that doesn’t make me burn everything I touch.

Maybe peace isn’t a lie.

Maybe it’s just… harder to choose.

So I’ll try something different.

I’ll cut Damon loose from the Songbirds once and for all. Repair what I broke. Find whoever’s hunting the women he’s tried to save. I’ll dig until the trail turns to blood, and then I’ll follow it—until it leads to the truth.

It won’t make us safe. Nothing ever really does.

But I’ve lived in the shadows long enough to know—

Sometimes, safety isn’t the goal.

Sometimes, the goal is simply surviving until the next war.

B Y THE TIME we make it back to Damon’s apartment, the rest of his inner circle is already there.

Lee is perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, his laptop open and his wiry hair sticking up from his forehead like he’s run his hands through it a billion times today. His eyes flick up at our arrival—quick but unreadable.

In the living room, Monroe and Connor are seated across from one another, locked in a silent standoff with matching glasses of amber liquid in hand.

Their glares are sharp enough to cut glass.

Meanwhile, Chavez leans casually over the back of the couch, arms folded, watching the tension unfold like it’s his favourite cable drama.

Then he turns toward the elevator and gives me a knowing smile. “I had a hunch the two of you would be together,” he says, then slaps Monroe on the shoulder. “You owe me twenty bucks, hermano .”

Monroe mutters something in Spanish that sounds less than polite, then digs into his wallet and slaps a bill into Chavez’s waiting palm.

It’s not exactly a warm welcome.

Lukewarm, maybe. Borderline civil.

But the moment Connor’s gaze lands on me, the temperature of the room seems to plummet. His eyes are sharp, glinting with quiet disdain. He doesn’t even try to mask it.

He’s obviously not my biggest fan, and that probably has something to do with The Speakeasy being in rubble across the street.

“Well, they do say keep your enemies close,” Connor mutters, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast before taking a long drink.

“Con. Enough,” Damon warns, his voice clipped, tight.

But I place a hand on his arm before he can say more.

It’s fine. I expected this.

I set my duffle on the floor and straighten my spine, taking a slow breath.

“I’m sorry for the mess I’ve made of all your lives,” I say, reciting the words I practiced in my head on the way here.

“I’ve gotten used to working alone. Used to fending for myself and ignoring the consequences.

But I should’ve known better—known that my choices wouldn’t just affect me, but all of you.

The people you care about. So… I hope you’ll accept my help in making it right.

In taking down whoever’s hurting these women. ”

The room falls silent.

Eyes lock on me. Some are wary. Some surprised.

Chavez and Lee both glance at Damon, like they’re waiting for him to speak first—but he doesn’t .

Instead, he just takes my hand in his, grounding me with the quiet rub of his thumb along my knuckles.

Monroe stands first.

He walks toward us, slow and measured, the weight of his presence settling like a shadow over the room. His face is unreadable—carved from stone, all hard lines and sharp quiet—and I brace for the worst. For the reprimand. The rejection. The reminder that I don’t belong.

But when he stops a couple feet away, something shifts.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Not cocky. Not dismissive. Just… real.

“I know what it means to be blinded by revenge,” he says, voice deep and steady, like something grounded in lived experience. “You made a mistake. So have we all. The fact that you’ve come back to try and fix it? That’s good enough for me, chica .”

My throat tightens. That means more than I can say.

Monroe was the first to doubt me—quietly but constantly. He never said much, but I always felt it. That quiet tension. The unspoken belief that I was a wildcard, a liability, that I didn’t belong in this circle he’d bled for.

So hearing this from him… it matters. It matters a lot .

Lee swivels on his stool, turning toward us with a crooked, hopeful half-smile.

“Maybe now I can finally convince you to show me how that R.O.S.E. program works,” he says, tone light and teasing—but beneath it, there’s something more.

A cautious optimism. Like maybe he’s been waiting for a reason to trust me. Maybe this is it.

Then Chavez stretches over the back of the couch, arms still folded, and flashes me a grin. “Glad you’re here to stay, firecracker,” he says. “Not gonna lie, things were getting a little stale without you. A little chaos now and then keeps the blood pumping.”

I can’t help the small smile that forms—uninvited, unforced, but genuine.

Damon squeezes my hand tighter, and I lean into him, letting the weight of his touch anchor me. Letting myself feel it—the acceptance, this fractured group slowly turning toward me instead of away.

But then Connor stands.

He sets his glass down on the coffee table with a sharp clink , the sound cutting through the moment like a blade. His movements are slow. Controlled.

Everyone watches him—Monroe, Chavez, even Lee—like they’re holding their breath, waiting to see which way the wind will blow.

Connor walks toward us with that same coiled energy he always carries. Like a spring wound too tight. His face is unreadable. Not angry. Not amused. Just… cold. Guarded. Like there’s a steel door behind his russet eyes, and I don’t have the key.

Of everyone here, Connor always seemed the most laid back. He was the one willing to give me a chance back when we infiltrated Blush—even when Damon was still wary.

But now… it’s obvious. Whatever trust he once had in me has been fractured. Maybe even shattered.

And I’m not sure if the faith of those he trusts most will be enough to repair it.

Connor’s sharp gaze stays locked on me, and there’s something about it that sends a shiver crawling down my spine. It’s not just mistrust. It’s something colder—equal parts inquisitive and murderous.

“You’re unpredictable,” he says finally.

That’s… not what I was expecting him to say.

“But I’m hopeful,” he continues, “that working with you instead of against you will be more beneficial in the long run.”