Page 51 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

T HE SUN RISES LIKE ANY OTHER MORNING IN K INGS.

Birds chirp, traffic hums beneath the windows, and the apartment smells like strong, freshly brewed coffee—some from the basic carafe on the counter, the rest courtesy of Lee’s chem-lab monstrosity next to it.

Brie and I step into the kitchen to find everyone already awake—at varying levels of awake, but here, nonetheless.

Connor is at the stove making French toast, scrambled eggs, and maple bacon, looking like he got a full eight hours despite the fact none of us managed more than five.

Monroe, on the other hand, sits at the island with his arms crossed and a permanent grumble lodged in his chest. Chavez leans over the counter like he’s only upright out of sheer obligation.

Brie and I take our seats at the island as everyone mumbles groggy “ good mornings .”

Lee, somehow disgustingly perky, turns to Brie. “Do you drink coffee?” he asks, already pulling out enough mugs for everyone.

I can’t help the snort that escapes me. It earns a few curious stares. And a glare from Brie that’s sharp enough to fillet me clean to the bone.

“Yeah, I’ll take a cup,” she says sweetly, ignoring my grin.

“If you’d like, I can make you one,” Lee offers, far too enthusiastic for this hour. “Have you ever tried Kopi Luwak ?”

And there it is .

Lee’s personal crusade—zero for four so far—is trying to convince any of us to ditch store-bought pre-ground for his exotic Indonesian beans.

Apparently, they were shit out by a cat or something. I stopped listening after he mentioned it cost forty dollars per cup .

Brie blinks at the sleek bag in his hands, then at the pour-over setup on the counter. Her smile falters slightly.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she says. “Yours is already started. I’ll just have the regular one.”

“It’s no problem,” Lee insists. “I can make you this cup and start another for myself. It’ll only take ten minutes. The beans are actually fermented by an Asian palm civet and—”

“Please stop,” Chavez groans. “You cannot start talking about cat shit coffee before I’ve had my own.”

“Really, Lee, breakfast is almost ready,” Connor adds without looking up from the stove. “Don’t make the poor girl barf until she’s eaten something.”

Lee shoots them both a glare. “Just because you four drink garbage doesn’t mean everyone else has to.”

Then, back to Brie, earnest as ever. “So? Want to try it?”

Brie hesitates—clearly not wanting to shut him down outright. Lee’s soft energy makes you think fragile , but it’s not true fragility; he bruises easy but he’s not breakable.

“I think that’s a no-go for her, Lee,” I say, leaning forward, my grin sharp. “With the amount of milk and sugar she dumps in her coffee, you’d probably have an aneurysm watching her defile your precious beans.”

Monroe snorts behind his newspaper. “Remember when Dahlia asked for stevia in hers?”

We all laugh—real, throat-deep laughter that rattles the morning haze right off our shoulders. Brie’s eyes flick from face to face, a lightness dancing at the edges as she absorbs it all.

I tell her the full story: our night-shift nurse, sweet Dahlia, dumping an obscene spoonful of sweetener into Lee’s prized brew while he watched in horror—followed by him immediately pouring boiling water all over his own hand .

Brie winces. “Did she have to treat him?”

“She did,” I say, smirking. “With cool water, burn cream, and exactly zero sympathy.”

“Okay, eat up,” Connor orders, plating six full servings and sliding the carafe of non-civet coffee within reach.

Lee watches, horrified, as Brie dumps milk and sugar into her mug like she’s making hot cocoa instead of coffee. The vein in his temple looks one heartbeat away from popping.

“There’s barely any coffee in that cup,” he groans.

Brie lifts her mug, locks eyes with him—deadpan.

“Shut up and drink your cat-shit bean water.”

The kitchen erupts in laughter.

Even Monroe chuckles behind his paper, wiping a rare tear from the corner of his eye.

It’s chaotic. It’s loud. And for a fleeting moment—

It’s normal .

Brie fits in like she’s always belonged here. Like she’s the missing puzzle piece none of us realized we were waiting for—until she snapped right into place.

And as I watch her smirk across the rim of her mug, my chest tightens.

This moment—this stillness, this laughter, this stolen peace—feels like the universe’s way of reminding me exactly what I stand to lose today.

Because in a few hours, I’m walking straight into a lion’s den.

And there’s no promise I’ll walk back out.

I called Matthias last night to schedule the meeting. He agreed too quickly. Like he’d been waiting for my call all along.

I told Brie there’s nothing to worry about. That it’s just a conversation between two men who’ve both bled for this city. But the truth is… I don’t know how it’s going to go.

In a perfect world, we’d sit down like gentlemen. Exchange reasonings. Offer apologies. Maybe even shake hands and part ways with a mutual understanding.

But this isn’t a perfect world.

This is New York .

Where fairy tales only ever end in fire and blood.

After breakfast, it’s time to put our plans in motion.

Lee and Brie set up at the island, brushing off the coffee debacle like old colleagues who’ve spent years bickering over machine specs and encrypted code.

Their laptops sit side by side, screens already alive with data and lines of script.

She’s faster. He’s more methodical. Together, they work like a matched pair of blades.

Monroe and Chavez, by contrast, are silent and sharp as they suit up. Pistols holstered at their hips. Extra mags snapped in place. Knives strapped to their calves. There’s a quiet rhythm to it—like soldiers readying for war.

I slide my own gun into the holster on my hip and tighten the strap. The weight grounds me. Reminds me who I am.

Then I round the island.

Brie looks up the second she senses me. Her fingers still on the keys. Even Lee pauses, sensing the shift in the room.

“Do what you do best, mi rosa ,” I say softly, for her alone. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you find when I get back.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows.

She nods. “I’ll make sure it’s something worth coming back for,” she whispers—then adds, quieter, sharper: “So make sure you do come back .”

“I will.”

I tip her chin up with two fingers and kiss her—slow and certain, giving not a single fuck that everyone is watching. Not Connor. Not Monroe. Not Lee.

Let them see it.

Let them know she’s mine .

“ Por ti, mi amor, no te fallaré. Nuestro tiempo juntos ha sido demasiado corto para que termine ahora. ”

Her cheeks flush, though I’m pretty certain she doesn’t understand what I’ve said—aside from maybe mi amor.

I’ve never called someone my love before.

Not Isabella. Not anyone.

It always felt too final. Too… vulnerable .

But with Brie, it slips off my tongue as easily as water over a cliff’s edge. As natural as wind weaving through tall grass. As inevitable as flame catching on bone-dry kindling.

Because she is the waterfall I’ve already fallen over.

She is the warm breeze that quiets the war in my head.

She is the spark that lit my hollow chest on fire.

And I will not let this be our end.

I’ll claw time from fate’s hands if I have to.

At the elevator, Connor leans against the wall as Monroe and Chavez file in behind me. When the doors open, I step inside—then pause in the threshold.

I turn back and catch Connor’s gaze.

“Watch her with your life, brother,” I murmur, voice low but leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His eyes flick to Brie—just for a breath—then lock back on mine. For a heartbeat, there’s something dark in his stare. Something that coils cold and tight in my gut.

It’s the same look he gave her last night—raw distrust, a flash of hate I’d hoped he’d bury, at least for today.

But then it’s gone.

He flashes that familiar cocky grin, all teeth and swagger, like it never happened.

“Seems I got the most important job,” he says.

I roll my eyes, but can’t stop the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth.

Then he claps my shoulder firmly before nudging me back into the elevator. “Don’t worry,” he says, “Everything will go according to plan.”

The doors close between us.

And I pray—quiet and desperate—to whatever god still bothers listening to bastards like me, that he’s right.

T HE S ONGBIRD headquarters is just as bleak and harrowing as I remember .

Hidden in plain sight behind the facade of a run-down used car lot, the exterior still reeks of rust and motor oil. But beneath the surface? The rot runs deeper.

They started simple with stolen cars. Easy money. Strip the VINs, repaint the bodies, resell to desperate souls who never asked questions. Clean, fast, and profitable.

But greed never stays small.

Somewhere along the line, they shifted gears. Became loan sharks. They preyed on the broke, the broken, and the barely breathing—offering salvation laced with poison. Short-term loans with impossible interest rates. The kind no one can crawl out from under.

And when you fail to pay? They don’t kill you.

No. They own you—piece by piece, debt by debt—until you beg for death and still don’t get it.

The only thing that disrupted the system was Xander.

The Songbirds always drew blood, but it used to be territorial—rival crews, turf wars, betrayal handled in the shadows. Xander was the first to cross the line. The first to kill someone innocent and call it necessary.

That one death cracked the Songbirds to their core. I wasn’t the only one sickened by what we’d become. But I was the only one who did something about it. The only one who risked walking away—and the only one who fought back.

And now I’m walking back in.

Two armed guards stand at the entrance. High-ranking. Well-trained. And fully aware of exactly who I am. They let us pass, but not without venom in their eyes. Their hatred clings to us like smoke. I can feel it coiling in the back of my throat.