Page 59 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

“ C OME ON, B RIE. D O YOU REALLY WANT another innocent life hanging over your head?” Connor says, crouched beside the woman who still isn’t moving. The one who looks too much like Amie—like the universe is mocking me with one final twist of the knife.

I force myself to breathe, to drag air through the fire in my chest and spine, to sit upright despite the agony burning through my bound limbs.

“This isn’t Damon’s mom’s house,” I say finally, my voice low but steady. “And I’m never going to tell you where it is.”

His eyes narrow, jaw ticking.

“Guess that makes you pretty fucking useless to me, then,” he mutters.

I nod once. Swallow the fear like poison.

“I guess it does,” I say. “So just kill me and let her live. She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Connor straightens slowly, like he’s weighing it. Almost disappointed. “You’re right,” he says finally. “But now I’m also going to need a distraction.”

The blood drains from my face.

He turns without another word and stalks to the kitchen. I hear drawers slam. Boxes thunk to the floor. The hollow scrape of junk shifting—until something sloshes.

He pivots back, a bottle of lighter fluid clenched in his hand. A box of long matches tucked in the other. He’s grinning like a man who’s finally figured out how to win.

I thrash against the chair. My wrists scream as the zip ties bite deeper—but there’s a little give. Just enough. My legs, though, are locked tight. Trapped against the wood legs of the chair.

“Connor, don’t—”

He’s already moving, drizzling a trail of lighter fluid along the edge of the living room carpet, sweeping it up the baseboards, painting the far wall in toxic sheen. The sharp chemical scent stings my nose, my eyes.

“I’m sure your little wild goose chase bought Damon enough time to catch up to us,” he says lightly. “So now, I’ll give him a choice. Stay with mommy and die protecting her... or tell me where she is and try to save his precious little rose.”

My heart free-falls into my gut.

I know Damon. I know what he’ll choose.

And I know he’ll hate himself either way.

I can’t let him make that choice.

Connor is halfway down the hallway with the bottle when I force my voice out again. “Just tell me one thing.”

He pauses, half-turns back, the lighter fluid glugging against the plastic.

“Why go through all this?” I ask. “Why not just kill him yourself?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “Simple. I want him to suffer the same way I’ve suffered. He took the last family I had left—and I want him to know what that feels like.”

“But he lost Isabella too,” I shoot back. “You know how much he blamed himself. You know he never forgave himself.”

Connor’s head whips toward me. Fury lights up his eyes, so bright it’s almost supernatural.

“It’s not the same!” he roars. “I want to see that hollow look in his eyes. I want him to wake up knowing there’s nothing left. No one left. Just revenge—rotting him alive. And then I’ll take that from him too.”

He vanishes back into the kitchen. The sounds change—metal against metal.

When he emerges, it’s worse than the lighter fluid.

A chef’s knife .

Long. Sharp. Gleaming under the overhead light.

My whole body goes cold.

He eyes his reflection in the blade, smirking like he’s admiring what he sees.

“And you know what, Brianna?” he says, his voice eerily calm now. “As useful as I thought you’d be… you’ve turned out to be a real pain in my ass.”

My brain screams move —but my body can’t obey fast enough.

He drives the knife into my stomach—buries it deep until only a sliver of silver glints outside my skin.

I scream—raw and ragged, the sound of agony ripped out like an exorcism.

Connor watches my pain with a grin before turning away, vanishing down the hall with the lighter fluid sloshing in his hand like a final insult. He doesn’t even look back.

He’s already decided I’m dead.

I fight for breath—try to keep it shallow and controlled—but every inhale sets my lungs on fire.

I thought getting shot was the most painful thing I could ever experience.

This is worse. So much worse.

The knife is still wedged in my gut. The pressure keeps the bleeding steady for now, but every twitch grinds metal against muscle.

I’m trembling all over. Sweat soaks my hairline. Blood pools hot and sticky onto my thighs.

One truth cuts through the haze, and my choice becomes crystal clear.

I can die here. Or I can fight like hell.

I grit my teeth and wrench my wrists against the zip ties. The pain is excruciating—my already-raw skin tearing open even more—but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

I yank and twist and stretch the plastic until one hand rips free. The indents left behind on my wrists are deep enough to bruise bone.

My hands spasm. Numb at first. I rub my raw wrists, force a drag of air into my lungs, and grab the knife handle .

You’re not supposed to pull a blade out if you’ve been stabbed. I know that. But I don’t have time to wait for a miracle.

So I do it anyway.

My fingers wrap the handle—slick with my own blood—and I tug.

It slides free with a wet, sucking noise that flips my stomach inside out. A cry tears from my throat—half scream, half gasp—as I slam a hand over the wound, feeling the hot rush of blood pulse between my fingers.

Breathe. Breathe. Don’t stop now.

My vision flickers at the edges. I lean forward, maneuver the blade down to my ankles, fumbling until I find the zip tie and saw through the plastic. It splits with a clean snap.

I’m free.

Not safe. Not okay.

But free.

I clutch the knife to my chest, smearing blood across my shirt as I half-crawl to the wall. I press my back against the plaster, positioning myself just beyond the hallway’s mouth. My breath rattles in shallow pants. The stench of lighter fluid claws at my throat, thick and caustic.

Then I hear him.

Heavy footsteps. Unrushed. Confident.

A hunter returning to finish his kill.

I steel myself. Count the steps.

Three. Two…

He steps into the living room.

I lunge.

My blade slices through the air, aiming for his shoulder—but he’s fast. Faster than I gambled. He catches my wrist mid-swing and yanks me forward, flinging me to the floor like a rag doll.

My body slams into the carpet. Pain detonates through my gut. A scream tears out as he pins me down, both wrists wrenched above my head, his weight crushing the breath from my lungs .

“Still as feisty as the day we met,” he murmurs, voice slick as spilled oil. He presses the barrel of his gun to my chest—right over my scar. “Don’t forget who made you what you are, Brie.”

I bare my teeth, my chest heaving.

“You did.”

And I slam my knee into his groin.

He grunts, folding forward. That second is all I need.

I twist, ignoring my own agony and rolling us over. I claw my way on top of him, slam his arm to the floor—gun and all—and pin it down with every scrap of strength I have left.

“You turned me into a monster,” I hiss, blood dripping from my stomach onto his shirt. “But you know what? I think I’ve learned to like being a monster—especially when it means I get to kill people like you.”

He laughs—a raw, ragged sound, more animal than human. “Try, Black Rose . We both know you’re no match. I could’ve ended you six months ago. I let you live.”

“You had your chance to shoot me,” I snarl, my eyes burning into his. “I won’t give you a second.”

His eyes spark—rage, delight, madness. All at once. It chills me to the bone.

“Good thing I don’t need to shoot you to kill you,” he rasps.

He wrenches his wrist sideways.

The gun jerks up—

BANG!

The shot blows out the wall sconce above us. Glass rains down in a shower of sparks. I roll off him just in time, shielding my face.

The fire catches instantly.

The sparks kiss the lighter fluid trail like it’s been waiting just for them.

And the room erupts .

Flames race up the walls, crawl across the carpet, swallow the furniture whole. Heat slams into me like a freight train, and smoke coils thick and fast, choking out the air.

Within seconds, the entire front of the house is burning .

I barely have a second to react before Connor is on me again, slamming me back to the floor.

My head bounces off the carpet with a dull thud . The knife is still in my hand—clenched so hard my knuckles burn—but with his weight crushing my ribs and his hand wrapped like iron cuffs around my wrist, I can’t land a single blow.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he sneers, breath hot on my cheek, spittle hitting my skin, “I’m sure Damon will miss you more than he ever missed Isabella.”

The words twist inside me—worse than the blade wound tearing open my gut. I writhe beneath him, thrash with everything I have left—

It’s not enough.

I’ve never been strong enough.

My heart slams in my chest, louder than the roar of fire devouring the walls.

I need him off me. Now.

He’s too focused on pinning my arms—expecting me to scream or beg. He forgot the one thing I still have control of.

I whip my head forward.

Crack.

Skull meets skull.

White light detonates behind my eyelids—my vision spins, and sour vomit rushes up my throat—but I hear him grunt. Feel his weight shift.

“God damn it—You fucking bitch!”

His grip slips.

That’s all I need.

I don’t see clearly—doesn’t matter. I ram the knife up with everything I have left. Blind. Ferocious.

The blade sinks into flesh.

Again. And again.

My scream rips out raw, animal. It twists into a roar—guttural and bottomless.

I keep stabbing. I don’t stop.

Not when he spasms. Not when he goes slack. Not when his blood floods my hands and spatters warm across my face.

I stab him for my dad .

For my mom.

For Amie.

For Jennifer.

For Anya.

For Lee.

For Rebecka.

For Damon.

For me.

His body folds like dead weight, collapsing across my chest. The knife is still embedded in his neck when my vision clears. Blood is everywhere—on my hands, in my mouth, soaking the carpet under us.