Page 64 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

The moment I reach the bottom of the email, my phone dings again. An e-transfer—

For eight million dollars.

My breath locks in my throat.

I look up at Lola, my mouth opening, then closing. The only word that slips out is: “ How? ”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her arms fold across her chest, her eyes flicking back toward the window—toward Brie. She doesn’t look for long. Almost like she can’t.

“She contacted me the night before you met with Matthias,” she says, her voice low. “Asked for a favour. It was all part of her plan to bribe him into submission. She handled the blackmail, and I got her the cash.”

I stare at her, not breathing.

“Apparently,” Lola goes on, “some asshole had been harassing her about selling her dad’s car collection since the day after he died.

So when I showed up as her representative and said we’d sell if he could get me the cash in hand by morning—he practically drooled.

I took my cut right away and transferred the rest to her so she could send it to Matthias along with her pre-written email. ”

Of course she did. Of course she planned this far ahead. She always had backup plans—planned for more than I could ever see coming.

But this wasn’t just clever. This was sacrificial.

“She sold the cars,” I murmur.

But if that was just the first part —

I lift my eyes to Lola. “Where did the rest come from? And why the hell are you sending it to me?”

Lola’s gaze drops just a fraction. Not defensive. Just... exhausted.

“She didn’t stop at the cars,” she says.

“They were just the fastest liquid asset. The house took longer to close. I had to find a buyer willing to pay in cash before it hit the market. I told her she'd be taking a loss. She didn’t care. She said if the plan with Matthias went sideways, she might not live long enough to hand it to you herself.”

The words hit like a fist to the sternum.

“She sold her parents’ house…”

Not a question. A realization.

The one thing she kept. The last thing she had of them—gone. And she sold it for me.

No—

She sold it for them . For The Speakeasy. For Kings County. For the people I swore I’d protect. For what we could’ve built together—if fate allowed.

My throat burns.

I clench my jaw again and look away.

“She told me once the sale went through to contact her,” Lola exhales, her eyes fixed on something far away. “But if she didn’t respond in twenty-four hours, I was to come straight to you. And send you that email.”

I study her profile, hunting for cracks in the mask she wears so well. But her voice holds no venom tonight. No sly edge. No spin.

“She thought Matthias would be the one to come after her,” Lola add softly. “If plan A failed… this was her plan B.”

“It was Connor,” I say quietly—though I’m not sure why I tell her. Lola and I aren’t friends. She’s the type of person who always has her own angle.

“I know,” she replies.

That surprises me.

“I found out today,” she clarifies. “Called Monroe when I couldn’t reach anyone at your place. He told me Brie was here. Didn’t say more, but… when I said Connor’s name, the look he gave me was enough.”

We both fall silent.

The hallway hums with static and far-off voices calling doctors and nurses to other wings, other crises I’m not part of. But here, just outside Brie’s room, it’s too still. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Lola says after a long pause.

I glance at her again, waiting for the punchline.

“I know what it feels like to trust someone and have them turn on you,” she goes on, voice steadier than I expect. “You and your people—for all the work you’ve done—you didn’t deserve this.”

If I didn’t know her the way I do, I might believe she really means that.

But then again…

People change.

My gaze follows hers through the glass. Only this time, she’s not looking at Brie.

She’s looking at Monroe.

He’s seated beside Brie’s bed, dragging a hand down his stubbled jaw, eyes cast low, unreadable to most.

But not to me.

They’ve always had… history. Tension. One of those dynamics born from fire and ruined before it could become anything more.

Monroe’s always claimed to hate Lola. Said he never trusted her. Never wanted her around. But when he glances up at the window, it’s not my face he searches for first.

It’s hers.

“You should be safe now, with Connor gone,” I say, watching her reaction.

She startles a little, like she forgot I was still here. Her shoulders stiffen before she rolls them back into that old, practiced indifference. “Is safe ever really possible in this line of work?” she murmurs.

“No,” I admit. “Probably not. I just meant—you’re safe to go back home. If that’s what you want.”

She doesn’t answer at first .

“But if you ever want out,” I add, “you let me know. I’ll do what I can.”

Her eyes flick to mine, then back to Monroe. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she whispers.

Then, the mask returns.

Back straight. Chin high. Emotions detached.

“I’d better go,” she says, already turning away. “But give me a shout if anything here changes, yeah?”

I nod once, and she walks toward the elevator. Poised. Elegant. Then gone.

When I step back into Brie’s room, Monroe rises from his chair, gaze pinned to the hallway, like he can still see her ghost trailing away.

“She said she had to go,” I say, sinking back into the seat beside Brie.

Monroe nods, but I can see the wheels turning in his head. As composed as he is, Monroe wears his thoughts in his spine. In the tension in his neck. In the way he shifts his weight.

In the way he frowns slightly without realizing.

“I forgot to tell her she can move out of that safehouse whenever she’s ready,” I add, watching him. “Think you can catch her in the lobby?”

“Yeah,” he says easily.

But when he leaves, he doesn’t wait for the elevator.

He heads for the stairs. Fast. Like something urgent is pulling him that way.

She already knows she can leave.

And deep down, Monroe knows that too.

The room settles into an eerie silence. The soft beep—beep—beep of Brie’s heart monitor is the only sound left to anchor me.

Her email replays in my mind, line by line, like a curse I can’t shake.

It read too much like a goodbye.

She promised she’d stop running—then wrote herself one last escape plan. One last out, whether she wanted it or not.

Even love stories have to end.

Her voice echoes in my head. I can hear it like she’s saying the words right into my ear.

But promise me you’ll get up off the floor.

How could she think I wouldn’t blame myself? That I could just get up and keep moving? She never should’ve carried this alone.

We both knew Matthias was a threat. I was prepared to deal with him myself. I was already planning for it.

So why did she take it all on her shoulders?

Because that’s who she is . Because she’d rather burn alone than watch someone else catch fire.

Just like me.

We’re the same that way—willing to throw ourselves into the inferno if it means saving the other.

But fire always leaves scars, even when it doesn’t kill you. And if she doesn’t wake up soon…

This one might consume me whole.

I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known better than to let her into this fucking disaster I call a life. I should’ve pushed her away the second I saw that spark in her eyes. That lethal hope she carried like a blade at her own throat.

But I couldn’t.

From the first moment—her tied to that chair, half-conscious and still terrifying—I knew I’d never be able to let her go.

She’s my enigma. My match. My madness.

With that sharp tongue and the wildfire in her chest, I fell harder than I’ve ever fallen. Straight to my fucking knees.

Our meeting wasn’t chance. But everything after?

It felt more destined than raindrops on pavement during a storm. More inevitable than waves crashing against the shore. More real than anything I’ve ever known.

And now—

All I want is to see her fire again.

This hospital is my hell.

Each second she stays silent, I get one step closer to tearing this entire place apart with my bare hands .

I clutch her hand in mine and press her knuckles to my lips, trying not to tremble like a broken thing. “Come on, mi rosa, ” I whisper. “Don’t make me chase you again.”

My throat catches.

“Because I will. I’ll drag myself straight to hell if that’s what it takes to hold you one more time.”

But she doesn’t move.

If it weren’t for the hiss of oxygen and the soft beep—beep—beep —I’d swear she was already gone.

How the fuck am I supposed to do this without her?

She gave me everything—eight million dollars and a goddamn mission. She wanted The Speakeasy rebuilt. Stronger. Safer. Bigger than before.

But how do I save anyone when I couldn’t even save her?

What kind of protector am I? What kind of man claims he keeps monsters at bay when the worst one of all worked beside me for two goddamn years?

I let him in. I let him stand next to her.

And now look.

I’m no hero. No saviour.

Just a fraud playing god in a kingdom built on ash.

Maybe that’s what this is. My punishment. My curse.

Every good thing I touch rots. Slips through my fingers like sand. No matter how tightly I grip—how desperately I hold on—it always slips away.

She’s slipping away.

No matter how I beg, how I rage, how I pray—she keeps slipping.

God, I want to go back.

Back to the back room of The Speakeasy. Back to her tiny apartment. Back to my condo.

Back to that battered SUV, the cracked leather seat that still smells like her shampoo.

Back to her parents’ old living room. Back to my mother’s safehouse on the cliffs.

Back to the porch. The bathroom. The bed.

If I could just go back to that bed—hold her there a little longer. A lifetime longer .

But even forever wouldn’t be enough.

Not for her. Not for us .

My eyes burn.

Not from grief, but from fury.

From the helpless, bone-deep rage that curdles into desperation when there’s nothing left to fight.

I lean in and press my forehead to hers, squeezing my eyes shut until the pressure aches behind them.

She smells like antiseptic. Like smoke and hospital sheets. Like the days I’ve spent watching her fade away in a place that feels more graveyard than recovery.

But underneath it all—beneath the blood, the fire, the fear—

She still smells like roses.

My little rose…

A rogue tear slips from the inner corner of my eye. It trails down the side of my nose—slow, silent—and lands against her lips.

The first tear I’ve shed in years.

I didn’t cry when I found Isabella dead. Didn’t cry when I moved my mother across state lines, not knowing if I’d ever see her again. Didn’t cry standing at the graves of people I loved.

I’d taught myself early in life to be strong. To bury the softness. To never let weakness show—because weakness is blood in the water, and the sharks never sleep.

But Brie…

Brie has been my weakness since the moment she hacked into my network and made me chase her ghost through the code.

So it’s fitting that she be the one to break me open.

A whisper-soft touch brushes my jaw. So light it feels like breath.

“A tear from the King of Kings…”

Her voice. Raspy. Quiet. But hers.

“How lucky I must be to witness it…”

“ Brie— ”

Her name breaks from my lips like a prayer torn straight from my ribs. I lean back, hardly breathing, and look at her.

Her eyelids flutter heavy with sedation, lashes trembling. But that hazel—warm, green, gold—shines back at me, so heartbreakingly alive.

Her lips curve into the smallest, fiercest, most dazzling smile I’ve ever seen. “Sorry to worry you,” she whispers.

I don’t hesitate. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.

I should be gentle. I know that. I know she’s still healing. That her body is probably screaming at her with every shift.

But I kiss her like she’s the first breath after drowning.

Like she’s the first drop of rain in a desert.

Like she’s the blood in my veins and the air in my fucking lungs.

When we finally separate, I gasp—breathing her in.

She smiles up at me through ragged breaths, and it’s everything I need to know she’s still fighting. Still her .

“I’m so sorry,” I rasp. “I should’ve known. I should’ve figured it out—”

Brie shakes her head slowly. Lifts her hand to my cheek. I catch her wrist, turn my head, and kiss the soft center of her palm. Then I lean into her touch, desperate to keep her connected to me.

“He fooled everyone,” she whispers. “Not just you.”

“But there were signs,” I murmur, brushing stray strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears. “This never should have—”

“I love you.”

My entire world goes silent.

The rest of my words collapse in my throat, crushed beneath hers.

Her thumb strokes my cheek. Slow. Steady. Grounding me. “I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance,” she says softly. “But you told me to say it again when it was over.”

She leans in—barely an inch, barely a breath.

“I love you, Damon.”

It’s a good thing we’re in a hospital, because I swear to god my heart forgets how to beat .

Or maybe this is what a real heart sounds like when it actually works—loud, reckless, alive.

I lower my head, my mouth brushing hers, the words spilling out like worship. “ Eres mi definición de amor, mi rosa. ”

She smiles softly. “Means?”

I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.

“You are my definition of love, my rose.”

I kiss her temple. Her cheekbone. The edge of her jaw—every piece of her I almost lost.

“I wouldn’t know the meaning of it without you.”