Page 56 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

T HE DRIVE TO R HODE I SLAND FEELS MUCH shorter this time. I’m not sure if it’s Connor’s reckless swerving through midday traffic or the universe’s final fuck you that’s shaving off the minutes I need to come up with a plan.

The engine hums beneath us as heavy metal blares from the speakers like a war drum. My head throbs in time with the beat, every crash of cymbal and scream of guitar grinding against my skull.

Connor hasn’t said a word since we got into his navy-blue Audi, and I haven’t asked any questions. As curious as I am to know every detail—why now, how long he’s been lying, what his end goal is—it doesn’t matter. Not right now.

What matters is protecting Rebecka.

He can’t find her. I won’t let him.

He only knows that her home is somewhere on Block Island—because that’s where he managed to track Damon to.

I’m assuming it was when Damon logged onto the King’s Eye server to access those files on Jennifer.

Considering Connor already got in once before undetected, he probably pulled the server logs and traced Damon’s IP.

But that only gives him a general location. He’s still in the dark about the exact address. That’s the only reason I’m still breathing. He needs me to show him the way.

We board the ferry like I had with Damon, but we don’t get out. He keeps us both locked tight inside the car.

He’s not taking any chances. Not after everything.

The ferry horn blares, cutting through the wall of sound pouring from his stereo. He lowers the volume, just enough for the tension between us to rise like steam off freshly poured asphalt.

Time’s running out.

“Okay,” Connor says, his voice flat, almost bored as he turns toward me. “From this point forward, you’re going to direct me to Damon’s most well-kept secret.”

He reaches down and cocks his gun, adjusting his wrist so it rests on the center console. The muzzle presses cold and steady into my ribs.

“Remember what happens if you don’t.”

I don’t flinch. Not on the outside.

“Kill me and you won’t know where to go,” I reply evenly.

He sneers, his mouth twitching like he enjoys the standoff. “Block Island isn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis, hacker. I’ll find it eventually. You’re just going to make it a whole lot faster—if you want to live, that is.”

But we both know that’s a lie.

He’s not going to let me live. Not once he has what he wants. Not after what he’s done. Not after how deep this betrayal cuts.

To earn Damon’s trust. To deceive him this long. To orchestrate all of this from within and still feel so little remorse against those he’s killed along the way—Connor would have to be the most ruthless person I’ve ever met.

And considering how many Songbirds I’ve killed these past six months, that’s saying something.

I inhale slowly, forcing air into my lungs, trying to think.

We only spent a few days with Rebecka. I didn’t pay attention to landmarks or look for escape routes—I didn’t feel like I needed to. And I can’t just point Connor in a random direction. He’ll know. He’s waiting for me to try.

I need to give him something real.

But not too real.

Only one house comes to mind. The one I saw across the water from Rebecka’s, where the cliffside horseshoes around the rocky beach. Damon told me it belonged to an older couple who only came in the summer. Meaning it should be empty now .

It’s not far enough from Rebecka’s place to truly relax, but far enough to buy time. Maybe even enough to lower Connor’s guard. Just enough for me to make a move.

Or at the very least, stall until Damon finds us.

Because he has to be on his way.

He’ll have found Lee—hopefully alive. He’ll know something’s wrong. That Connor and I are both gone. That I wouldn’t just disappear on him again.

Unless... unless Connor convinced him otherwise. He’s been manipulating him for months— years . Feeding lies. Who’s to say Damon won’t assume I’m safe, hiding out somewhere with Connor?

My chest tightens. I can’t afford to hope. Not too much.

The ferry lurches as it docks, the boat rocking slightly under us. Connor’s car rolls down the ramp and touches pavement. The second the tires hit solid ground, he nudges the muzzle of his gun harder into my side.

“Which way?” he asks.

I keep my gaze straight ahead. “Drive through town until you hit dirt. Then we head west.”

Connor hums low in his throat, like he’s amused. “Good girl,” he murmurs.

My stomach twists at the words.

While it’s praise on Damon’s tongue, I know Connor is using it to belittle me—to make me feel small and inferior.

All it’s doing stoking the fire in my chest.

My hands stay still in my lap, my expression carefully neutral. I swallow down every trace of disgust, every spark of fear that threatens to surface.

I don’t let him see it.

But I’m already picturing how I’ll kill him.

We travel west, tracing the same backroads Damon took. Paved streets crumble into dirt tracks, swallowed whole by dense forest and gnarled underbrush.

It’s quieter out here— too quiet. The kind that makes your ears strain for phantom footsteps. The kind that makes every snap of a branch sound like a threat, every whisper of wind feel like breath on your neck .

The sort of quiet that convinces you you’re being watched, even when you know— know —there’s no one there.

As we pass the familiar turnoff that leads to Rebecka’s house, I point forward with a subtle nod. “Follow this path until we reach the end,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. Detached. Obedient.

Connor mutters something under his breath and keeps driving, knuckles white against the wheel as the tires fight the rutted terrain.

Ice crusts over the dips in the road where other wheels have gouged deep veins through the mud.

Slush and gravel spit against the windows, painting the side mirrors in smeared, filthy streaks that swallow the view behind us.

The whole car shudders and protests with every pothole, every patch of frozen ground threatening to yank us sideways into the trees.

He grunts, low and bitter. “Figures he’d hide her out in the goddamn middle of nowhere.”

He glances at me, just once, like he expects sympathy.

All he gets is silence.

The deeper we go, the better. The more isolated, the more time I might have.

We round a sharp bend and the woods part, opening up to a clearing that overlooks the water. The sight punches the breath from my lungs.

The cliffs.

The rocky beach below.

Black-green waves heaving under a slate-grey sky.

The dusting of snow like powdered sugar over the driveway.

For a heartbeat, my pulse stumbles—then steadies. It’s not Rebecka’s. The bones match, but the skin is wrong: baby-blue siding instead of white, a charcoal roof, a chimney as dead as the yard. No smoke. No warmth.

Just a hollow shell, exactly what I need—exactly what I was praying for.

Connor veers off the track, crunching into a sweep of tall, frost-bitten grass that hides us behind a knot of trees. The tires crackle over frozen stalks, snapping like brittle bone. He slams the car into park, engine sputtering in protest before cutting out.

“Don’t move.” His voice is razor-sharp as he lifts the gun from the console, keeping it aimed it at my ribs.

My hands float where he can see them—steady, compliant.

He rounds the hood, boots grinding ice into the silence. When he reaches my door, he rips it open and his hand clamps around my arm. The muzzle of his gun digs hard enough between my ribs to bloom bruises beneath my skin.

“Walk,” he murmurs, his lips too close to my ear, his breath hot and sour against my skin.

He herds me up the steps, boots creaking on warped boards. I halt at the door, my heart rattling in my chest.

“I don’t exactly have a key,” I say, dull as stone.

I feel Connor’s smirk slice at my temple. “No, but she’s less likely to shoot you in the face than me.”

He pivots, bashes the butt of the gun through the thin window beside the knob. Glass webs, then bursts—cold wind knifing through the dark house as he snakes a hand inside, not bothering to avoid the shards of glass surrounding the frame. Blood smears down the peeling frame as he flicks the lock.

“Open it.” The barrel digs deeper between my shoulders.

My fingers wrap the icy knob. It sticks—then gives with a croak. The door drags inward, hinges moaning like a beast roused from too-long sleep. Stale heat and a sigh of dust seep out to meet us.

I stand frozen at the threshold.

The layout is eerily familiar. Kitchen to the left. Living room straight ahead. But the furnishings are decades older and mismatched—faded floral prints in yellows and oranges, heavy dark wood, a deep green carpet fraying around the edges.

“Hello?” Connor calls into the silence.

Nothing.

He swivels back to me, face tight with suspicion. “Where is she? ”

I lift my chin, let a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “How should I know?”

He doesn’t like that.

He shoves me hard enough that I stumble over the lip of the doorframe. My boot snags the rug, and I nearly faceplant before catching myself on trembling palms. The gun barrel digs into my spine again, urging me forward.

Connor drags a wooden chair from the kitchen, the legs shrieking over tile and threadbare carpet until he plants it dead center in the living room.

“Sit.”

I hesitate—just enough to make him seethe. He clamps his palm over my shoulder and shoves me down hard.

From his pocket, he pulls a coil of black zip ties. My blood ices over.

I bolt. Or try to.

I lurch upward—too slow. His hand slams me back into the seat, iron grip crushing my collarbone against the chairback. The muzzle of his gun grinds into my temple so hard my teeth click.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

His voice is a rusted blade, the promise behind it sharp enough to flay me open and gut me like a fish.