Page 50 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

The way he phrases it catches me off guard. It’s too calm. Too reasonable for someone who looked ready to throw me off the balcony not five minutes ago.

Before I can respond, Chavez smacks him on the shoulder and mutters, “Stop being a broody bastard. That’s Monroe’s thing.”

Connor’s scowl drops, replaced by his usual cocky grin. The switch is almost jarring .

“Sorry,” he shrugs. “I’m just really fucking itching to take down whoever’s behind this.” Then his grin sharpens. “And maybe a few more Songbird bastards while we’re at it. You know—for stress relief.”

Damon doesn’t miss a beat. “Before we do any takedowns, we need a plan.”

His voice is firm, steady—the kind of calm that demands focus. Just like that, he steps back into his role as the man they all trust to lead them into hell.

Lee steps in with a quick rundown that’s similar to what he told Damon over the phone.

He’s still monitoring the King’s Eye server for anomalies, but nothing new has turned up yet.

He’s scanned what footage is available from nearby cameras, but as expected, the angles are crap.

The neighbourhoods where the women were killed don’t have high-end surveillance.

That’s where I come in.

“R.O.S.E. should be able to help us pull images—maybe not of the attack itself, but definitely of what happened before and after,” I explain.

“If we have an exact time and location, it’s simple.

Scrub the footage, pull the data. But the less we know going in, the more footage I have to sort through. ”

Damon strokes his chin in thought. “What are the odds we get a clear shot of this guy’s face?”

I shrug. “Depends on how smart he is. If he knows what he’s doing, he might’ve avoided the obvious cameras. But if we do get a clean image, I can track him down in no time. It’s just the getting there that’s going to require some patience.”

“No problem,” Damon says, turning to Lee. “You two will stay here and work on that. Lee can get you all the info he can find to feed into R.O.S.E. Once you’ve got something, you can let us know.”

Lee nods without hesitation.

Then Damon glances at Monroe, Chavez, and Connor.

“I’m going to need one of you to stay behind with them and keep watch,” he says. “The Songbirds may still be on the hunt after Xander. I’m not leaving Brie and Lee here without someone on the door. ”

Monroe and Chavez exchange a look—both clearly expecting it’ll come down to one of them.

But then Connor surprises us all.

“I’ll stay,” he says.

Everyone—including me—turns to stare at him.

Just a minute ago, he was itching for action. Ready to burn the city down. And now he’s volunteering for the job that might come with the least of it.

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with me. But I’m not exactly in a position to question him—not when I’m the reason any of this is happening in the first place.

Connor’s jaw tightens as the silence stretches.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I know when it’s my turn to rotate in.”

I catch Damon’s brow twitch slightly, but he nods. “Okay. Connor stays. Monroe and Chavez, you’re with me tomorrow morning.”

“Where are we going?” Chavez asks.

Damon lets out a breath that sounds a little too weighted to be casual. His gaze flicks from Chavez to me, then back again.

“I’m going to meet with Matthias O’Doyle.”

Monroe stiffens. “Are you out of your mind? The man wants you dead.”

“He’s wanted me dead for a long time,” Damon replies calmly. “Fact is, if he’s hurting innocent people, it needs to be stopped. Whether that ends in a conversation or in gunfire—that’s up to him.”

My heart drops like a stone.

A shootout with the head of the entire Songbird network, just to fix something I started?

“You really think he’s going to just... let you waltz in?” I ask, trying to keep the edge of panic out of my voice. “Walking into the Pentagon would be less of a suicide mission.”

Damon shakes his head. “Matthias may be ruthless, but he’s also calculated. If I give him reason to believe this is just a conversation—just information—he’ll let me in. ”

“The question is,” Monroe says, arms crossed, “will he let you leave?”

The silence that follows is thick. Cold. The kind that settles under your skin and stays there.

A chill crawls down my spine, and I try to shake it off.

I have to do something. I have to.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Damon says, like he’s talking about the weather and not his own possible death. “In the meantime, you all look like shit. Get some rest. We’ll reconvene at sunrise.”

“Family breakfast at dawn?” Connor suggests lightly. “In case it’s our last?”

No one laughs. But somehow, everyone accepts it. Like this is just another part of the job. Just another gamble in a long line of near-death moments.

I tell myself it’s because they’re confident. That they trust Damon. That they’ve seen him walk into worse and come out fine.

But I’m not that calm. I’m not them .

Because I’m done losing people I care about.

And I do care—about all of them now. Even when I swore I wouldn’t. Even when I built walls, covered them in sharpened thorns, and promised myself I’d never trust anyone again.

As everyone lugs their bags into the various bedrooms with tired steps and barely exchanged words, I glance down the hallway toward the room I stayed in before.

Before I have the chance to decide whether I should unpack and let Damon rest, my bag is lifted from my hands. Damon tosses my duffle over his shoulder, offering me a small, tired smile before carrying both our bags into his bedroom.

I guess that’s my answer.

I follow him to the end of the hall, the door closing softly behind us as he drops our bags at the foot of his bed. Then he drops himself onto the edge—slow, heavy—like the weight of everything is finally settling in his bones .

I stand there for a second, watching him, my heart clawing at my ribs.

“Is there anything I could say to convince you not to throw yourself to the wolves tomorrow?” I ask quietly.

He looks up at me with a half-smile that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. “Worried about me?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.

I press my palms into his shoulders and slide into his lap, knees sinking into the mattress at his hips, cupping his face in both hands.

His eyes meet mine. They’re dark and tired, but steady. Steady in a way that makes me want to scream.

“If I’m not allowed to run,” I whisper, “then neither are you.”

His hands settle on my hips. “I’m not running,” he says, his smirk fading into something softer. “I have every intention of coming back to you, Brie.”

My breath catches. Something unfamiliar curls in my chest, soft and warm. Hope, maybe.

“You’d better,” I huff, trying to bury the heat rising in my cheeks beneath mock annoyance.

Damon leans in, brushing slow, lazy kisses along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His fingers slide up my spine and tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to make my heart stutter.

“Remember who I am, little rose,” he murmurs against my skin. “The Songbirds may have numbers, but I’m their biggest threat. I might be walking onto their home turf, but I’m not going down easy.”

He nips at my neck, a sharp reminder of everything he’s capable of.

All of it should reassure me.

And maybe it does a little.

I know what Damon’s done. I know how many he’s taken down. I know what he’s survived. He’s dangerous in a way most men can only pretend to be.

But none of that makes him invincible.

And that— fuck —that scares the hell out of me .

When I don’t answer right away, his hand rises to my jaw, fingers coaxing my face back to his.

“I used to worry your words would be my downfall,” he whispers, his voice rough around the edges. “But it’s your silence that’s killing me now, mi rosa .”

God. That line almost undoes me.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, forcing myself to take a breath. “I’m just… a little stressed about tomorrow.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.

“Maybe I’ll take a bath. Try to relax before I come to bed.”

His thumb strokes my cheekbone. His expression softens, the sharp intensity folding into something warmer. Gentler.

“Take as long as you need,” he says. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He kisses me again. This time it’s soft, tender. The kind of kiss that tastes like promises I’m terrified to believe in.

For one second, I almost scrap my whole plan. Just so I can stay here and keep kissing him.

But I can’t. I won’t .

Not just for Damon’s sake. Not just to keep him alive tomorrow.

I need to finish what I started.

I grab my duffel—still packed—and slip into the ensuite bathroom. The door closes behind me with a quiet click , and I exhale as I flip the lock.

It’s identical to the bathroom in the guest room I used to occupy. Same pristine tiling. Same giant shower. Same massive soaker tub.

One day, I promise myself, I’ll actually take a bath in that thing.

I twist the taps and let the water thunder against the porcelain. It spirals into the drain until I plug it, letting the tub fill—just for the ambient noise.

Just in case Damon’s still listening.

Who am I kidding? I know he’s listening.

Because if our roles were reversed, I’d be doing the same.

I sit on the edge of the tub and unzip my bag, pulling out my laptop. The screen lights up immediately, casting a harsh blue glow against my face. Within seconds, I’m in the deepest corners of the dark web, digging for whatever dirt I can find on Matthias O’Doyle.

It’s... easier than I expected.

His digital footprint is a field of landmines.

Unlike Damon, whose firewalls are built like bunkers, Matthias’s arrogance—or maybe just laziness—has left his inner network riddled with vulnerabilities.

Sloppy code. Open ports. Unpatched backdoors.

It doesn’t take long before I’m swimming in enough dirty secrets to cripple an empire.

He’s been running the Songbirds longer than I’ve been alive. His fingerprints are on every laundering scheme, contract kill, black market auction, and tax fraud doc I unearth.

It’s the kind of dirt that could bury him in six countries.

And it barely scratches the surface.

I build a file. Compress it. Encrypt it. Archive it in three separate locations.

Phase one: complete .

Phase two... is going to be trickier.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. I scroll through my messages until I land on the one number I never saved—the one that started all of this.

Lola .

I stare at it for a beat. Then I hit call, half expecting it to go straight to voicemail.

She’s probably burned through a dozen phones since then. I’m betting on instinct and pure luck that this one’s still active.

The line connects.

There’s no greeting. Just static.

I take a breath.

“This is The Black Rose.”

A low chuckle echoes across the line.

“Well, this is a surprise,” she says, her voice silk-draped in smoke. “To what do I owe the honour, illustrious Black Rose ? ”

“I need a favour. Two, actually. And I need them complete by tomorrow morning.”

“Mmm. You know my fee is steep, even for old acquaintances.”

“I know,” I say evenly. “Hear me out, then name your price.”

There’s a pause, then a click as she switches to speaker.

“Go on.”

I outline my plan. Every detail. Every condition. Every risk.

She laughs halfway through. A low, amused sound like she can’t decide if I’m brilliant or insane. Maybe it’s both.

But when I finish, she doesn’t hesitate.

“Fine,” she purrs. “Consider it done.”

I let out a slow breath.

My fingers tremble, but I close the laptop and slide it back into the bag.

Phase two: in motion .

Now comes phase three…