Page 63 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

T HREE DAYS.

Three days since I last saw her open her eyes.

Three days since I last heard her voice—hoarse and breathless, like her soul was already halfway out of her body.

Three days since I felt her fingers twitch against mine.

The hospital on Block Island did what they could. They got her through the first surgery—just enough to keep her alive. But the second I saw them lift her shirt, saw the wound—saw their faces—I knew. It wouldn’t be enough. She needed Dahlia.

So I made the call.

The medevac met us before sunrise. They prepped her mid-flight, and Dahlia had a trauma team ready in New York the second we touched down.

Eight hours. That’s how long she spent in surgery while I paced every hallway they’d let me near. They reconstructed her abdomen, repaired torn muscle, tried to stop the internal bleeding.

And then, just when we thought it was over, they found another bleed. And she went in again.

Now she lies motionless in a hospital bed that looks more like a machine than a place meant for rest. She’s hooked up to every monitor money can buy.

Her leg’s in a cast, elevated and bruised.

Tubes run across her cheeks and ears, pumping oxygen through her nose and mouth like it’s the only thing tethering her here.

I tell myself she’s going to make it. She has to .

She didn’t survive a home invasion, a bullet to the chest, the Songbirds, a kidnapping, and the war she declared in her family’s name—just to be taken out by a fucking kitchen knife.

But people have died from less.

Lee’s still recovering too, but he’s stable. Lucky. Dahlia said the bullet missed anything major. He’ll be in pain for a while, but knowing him, he’ll be back behind a screen before the week’s out like nothing ever happened.

Monroe’s been bouncing between Lee’s room and Brie’s. He doesn’t say much—he never really does—but he listens. I told him everything I know about Connor.

Or Conrad Harrison . Isabella’s estranged brother.

The revelation still sits like a stone in my gut. I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve known .

But she never mentioned him—not once. And at the time, I never had a reason to doubt her.

Now that I know, I can’t unsee it. The signs were everywhere. His sudden appearance after her death. His obsessive hatred for the Songbirds. His complete disregard for his own safety.

Six months ago, he shaved his head and started wearing contacts. Told me they were prescription—that he was trying something new. I never questioned it.

But he’d already set it all in motion. He had a plan—every piece of it. Every move. Every conversation.

He got close. Got inside. And when he found out I’d hidden my mom away, he realized he needed someone smarter, more resourceful. Someone who could do what he couldn’t.

That’s when he found Brie.

Only she wasn’t some hacker for hire. She wasn’t another pawn in his twisted game.

She was a student. A daughter. A sister. A human being with morals, and dreams, and a family that anchored her.

So he took it all. Tore her life apart until all that remained was grief, rage, and the broken remnants of the girl she used to be .

He thought that would be enough to make her one of us. To drag her down into the same pit we all crawl through where morality is optional, and revenge becomes religion.

But he was wrong.

Brie never lost herself—not completely.

Even through the blood and the bodies and the fire she lit behind her, she never stopped seeing the difference between what should be done and what had to be done.

That fire inside her burned hot with vengeance. But the part that burned the hottest was always her hope .

Hope that no one else would end up like Amie. Like her parents. Hope that the violence would end with her. Hope that when the ashes settled, she’d find something worth living for.

That fire is what pulled me in.

Like a moth to a flame—knowing damn well I’d be reduced to ash if I got too close, but still reaching anyway.

And now?

Now all I want is to see that fire in her eyes again. To see her tear these tubes off her face and scream at the world like it owes her something.

Because her lying here like this—so still, so pale, so fucking fragile —it makes me feel weaker than I’ve ever felt in my entire goddamn life.

Not even when Isabella died. Not even when I left the Songbirds. Not even when I buried the person I used to be.

Because now… now I have something to lose.

And her name is Brie Rosenberg.

My little rose.

Past the beeping machines and the steady tap of my restless leg against the cold tile, I hear the door to Brie’s room creak open.

Monroe steps inside. His gaze lands on Brie first—like always—then shifts to me.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he says.

I lift a brow .

I had Dahlia lock this entire floor down. No press. No patients. No interruptions. Just the people I trust—and even that list is short.

But if it were Lee or Chavez, Monroe would’ve let them in without a word.

“Who?”

He sighs and steps toward the blinds, twisting them open until the slats reveal the hallway. “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

And he’s right.

Because if he had told me Lola —of all fucking people—was here, I’d have laughed in his face. Or snapped something in half.

She’s not dressed like herself. No glitzy club wear, no stilettos, or red glitter lips. Just jeans, a navy-blue trench coat, and a cream turtleneck. Her signature red hair is pulled into a loose braid, her makeup muted and subtle.

When her eyes meet mine through the window, she smiles but it’s faint. Nervous.

She’s too calm for someone who should be terrified of me.

“Tell her now’s not the time to bother me,” I say, turning away from the window.

Like everyone else under my protection when The Speakeasy was compromised, Lola moved into one of the secure safehouses outside Kings. According to Monroe, she wasn’t exactly thrilled. They’re simple—the same ones we use for women who need a place to stay after they escape hell.

I gave her shelter. Security. Space.

And now she’s here?

I don’t have the bandwidth to listen to her bitch about boredom or beg for a new mattress. Not when Brie is lying in that bed—unmoving, silent, teetering between this world and the next.

“I told her that already,” Monroe says, unbothered by my tone. “She blew up my phone until I met her downstairs.”

“Then you should’ve sent her back.”

“She says it’s about Brie,” he says, voice low. “And that it’s time-sensitive. ”

That gets my attention.

My jaw tightens and I stand from the chair I haven’t left in two hours. My hand rests against Brie’s for a moment longer before I let go.

I glance back at Monroe. “Come get me if she so much as twitches.”

“Of course.” He slides into the seat beside her like he was made for it—quiet and steady as ever.

I step out into the hallway, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. I shove my hands into my pockets as I close the distance between me and Lola. My expression is as cold as steel. My voice sharper than a blade.

“What do you want?”

She flinches—just slightly—but reins it in, her eyes flicking toward Brie through the glass. She looks for barely a heartbeat—like even that glimpse costs her too much—then turns back to me.

“I have something for you,” she says softly, reaching into her coat.

I tense instinctively.

But all she pulls out is her phone.

“I was told to send it to you,” she explains, her voice thin, “in the event Brie became… unavailable to receive it herself.”

Every muscle in my body locks.

Who gave her instructions? When? Why?

And how the fuck did she know Brie would be in danger?

Before I can demand answers, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Lola lifts her phone a fraction higher. “It’s that.”

I drag my phone out and glance at the screen.

One email. No subject. No sender. Encrypted.

Exactly like the one Matthias O’Doyle got.

But the moment I open it—

I know exactly who it’s from . Damon, If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to tell you myself—and whatever the reason, know it wasn’t by choice.

I knew from the start this plan would be dangerous, but I had to try.

To do something—anything—to keep you safe.

This was my fault, after all. I know you probably have a thousand questions, but most of them won’t matter now if I’m not there to answer them.

What does matter is this: I’m sorry—for the timing of our lives crossing, for the way I crashed into the quiet you’d finally carved out for yourself.

I should have trusted you when it came to Alexander, but I was blind back then.

You made everything clear. I used to wonder what the point of surviving was.

I thought it was revenge. But you showed me it was more than that.

You live for something bigger—for people who’ve never known kindness, for those no one else sees.

You make the world less cruel for the ones who deserve a softer place to land—and even for a few who don’t.

I want to do the same. I want what happened to me to mean something good.

And if I can’t do that myself anymore, then this is the next best thing.

Please… fix The Speakeasy. Rebuild it. Let it become something grand—something that saves more lives than we ever could alone.

And when you stand in that new building, when you see someone smile for the first time in years, I want you to see my smile too.

I want you to smile back. Don’t drown in guilt.

Don’t blame yourself for my absence. I made the choices that led me here—and I’ll carry those consequences myself.

I know you’ll lie with them for a while, too.

You’ll mourn what we could have had. But promise me you’ll get up off the floor.

Even love stories have to end. I’m sorry ours had to end before it could really begin.

But thank you—for reminding me what love could feel like. Always, Your little rose.

My jaw tightens so hard I could snap the bone in two.