Page 65 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

“ H ASN’T IT BEEN LONG ENOUGH?”

“Trust me,” Damon mutters, his voice dry as he spoons another mouthful of the world’s blandest oatmeal toward me. “I asked the same question.”

He feeds me carefully, like I might shatter if he’s not gentle. The oatmeal hits my tongue and I swear it tastes like shredded cardboard soaked in lukewarm tap water.

“Dahlia said the best she could do was get you out of here Monday.”

Two more days.

If Damon weren’t here, I think I might die of boredom before whatever possible infection they’re still monitoring me for could finish the job.

But it’s not the sterile white walls or the endless hum of machines that bothers me.

It’s him .

Sleeping in that lumpy chair for days. Neck twisted into angles that no human spine was designed to be in. Pretending it doesn’t hurt, just to be close to me.

I want to go home, just so I can shove him into a real bed.

And maybe eat something that doesn’t taste like soggy cardboard.

“If I eat any more of this, I might actually puke,” I groan, forcing the last bite down. “I’m pretty sure prisoners get better food than this.”

Damon arches a brow and skeptically scoops a spoonful for himself. He tries it—then scrunches his nose .

That’s all the confirmation I need that I’m not being dramatic.

“I have to agree,” he mutters, setting the bowl on the bedside tray and shoving it away. “Maybe I should buy the hospital. Force them to hire a real chef.”

I smile, but it fades when I catch the shift in his eyes.

He’s staring at me—quiet, unreadable, stone-carved features, jaw locked tight.

“What?” I ask, instantly uneasy. “What’s wrong?”

“You sold your parents’ house.”

It’s not an accusation. But it hits like one anyway.

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

“And that’s… bad?” I try.

He reaches for my hand, curling his fingers around mine.

Shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, his voice low.

“It’s just… the last time you were there, it still meant something to you.

You shouldn’t have sold it—or your dad’s cars—just to get me out of trouble with Matthias.

I could’ve handled it. And King’s Eye makes enough.

I would’ve found another way to fix The Speakeasy. ”

I sigh, brushing my thumb along his knuckles.

“First,” I say gently, “Matthias was my responsibility. I know you’ll never admit that, but it was my mess to clean up. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try to stop a war in Kings County.”

His grip tightens around mine.

“Second,” I continue, softer, “the house… it used to hold memories. But the last time I was there, all I felt were ghosts. The memories—they’re here.

” I tap my temple. “The house was just expensive land no one was using. Selling it felt right. Especially if it means you can rebuild The Speakeasy into something bigger than both of us.”

He looks like he wants to smile. But something stops him.

“You had Lola deliver your note,” he says, frowning. “You sent an email instead of telling me your plan.”

I exhale through my nose, bracing for the sting I know is coming .

“You would’ve stopped me,” I say plainly. “My intention was always to handle it myself. Lola was just… insurance.”

I lift my hands, cup his face, forcing his eyes on mine. His skin is warm under my palms—alive, real, mine .

“I never intended to leave you, Damon,” I whisper. “And I have no intention of ever doing it again.”

His eyes soften slowly. And then that smirk— his smirk—curls at the corner of his mouth. Dangerous. Possessive. The one that makes my pulse forget how to behave.

“You’d better mean that, mi rosa, ” he growls, voice low and lethal. “Because you’re mine. Like it or not, I’ll chase you down until we’re nothing but bones and dust.”

“And after that?” I dare.

His hand slides behind my neck.

Then he kisses me.

His lips are fire—hot and claiming. His tongue is pure possession, tangling with mine, slow at first, then demanding more.

His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging until I part for him—helpless to stop it, desperate for it.

And when he owns my mouth completely, he steals every last breath from my lungs—only to then pour it right back into me.

When he finally lets me go, I’m gasping—half alive, half ruined. He lifts my chin with two fingers, holding my face steady. His eyes burn with heat and threat and something far more terrifying.

Devotion .

“I think I could convince your ghost to settle down in the afterlife,” he murmurs, barely holding his composure.

A shiver rakes down my spine.

The good kind. The sinful kind.

“Probably,” I whisper, and I don’t doubt it for a second.

“I get the feeling we’re interrupting. What do you think?”

Damon and I both turn at the voice by the door—though for me, it’s significantly harder, mostly because he still refuses to let go of my chin .

“I’d say you’re probably right, hermano ,” Monroe says to Lee, pushing him into the room in a wheelchair. “But knowing Damon, it’s something we’ll all have to get used to.”

“I’m honestly just surprised it’s still relatively PG in here,” Chavez adds, holding the door open behind them.

“More like PG-13,” Lee deadpans from the chair, clearly feeling better than he looks.

“You boys are worse than some of the kids in PEDS,” Dahlia mutters as she steps in last, shooting Chavez a pointed glare.

They exchange a glance—then crack matching grins they both try and fail to smother.

Damon finally releases me, straightening up as he turns to face the chaos. “Dahlia, always a pleasure. Though did you really have to bring all the riffraff with you?”

Lee squints up at him, feigning deep offense. “Hey, I got shot. Pretty sure that puts me in my own category separate from these clowns.”

Monroe grunts. “Why do I feel like we’ll never hear the end of this?”

“Because we won’t,” Damon confirms, ruffling Lee’s already wild hair. “Still—glad you’re not dead, brother.”

I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth.

It’s strange. Just a few months ago, I had no one.

No one who knew my real name, let alone my scars. No one I’d ever allow to see me like this: broken open in a hospital bed, struggling just to sit up.

And yet… none of them are treating me like I’m some broken thing.

When I first woke up, sure—there were cautious glances, hushed checks to see if I could talk, move, breathe. But once they were sure I was really okay—really me again—it was just this:

Laughter. Banter. Chaos wrapped around a sense of safety I thought I’d lost forever.

It reminds me of home.

Of Amie.

When she’d fall off her bike and scrape her knees, I’d rush to her side like she’d suffered a fatal wound. But if there were no tears, no bones poking through skin, I’d immediately start teasing her until she tackled me into the grass, threatening to swap my shampoo for Nair.

That was us. A rhythm equal parts protectiveness and torture. A language only siblings seem to master—where nobody else is allowed to so much as breathe wrong near you, but they themselves reserve the right to give you a beating if you blink too loudly.

Somehow, that’s exactly what this feels like.

No, none of these burly, sharp-edged men would dare tackle me or call me something that’d make my mother shriek. But they’re not afraid to treat me like the sister they never had—teasing, testing, laughing, trusting me to take it.

Like they’ve carved out a place for me here. A space I didn’t even know I needed until I found myself fitting inside it like I was always meant to.

A family.

Not the one I was born into—

But the one I chose.

And maybe more importantly… the one that chose me back.

I know—god, I know—Amie would have adored them too.

As the guys keep trading barbs, Dahlia makes her way to my bedside. Her platinum blonde hair is scraped into a tight top-knot, but stray flyaways around her ears and the damp wisps at her neck betray just how long her day has been.

“Busy shift?” I ask, eyeing the scrawl she’s adding to my chart—checkmarks, timestamps, abbreviations I’ve come to recognize without even trying.

“In the ER?” She grins. “Always. We get nervous when it’s quiet—makes us wonder if the world’s ending.”

I huff a laugh, but it cuts short when a sudden commotion erupts in the hallway.

Fast footsteps echo off the tile—frantic, unannounced. The floor’s supposed to be locked down—Damon made sure of it—so the sound of security barking orders just beyond the window sends a jolt straight through my chest.

The air shifts. Tenses.

Monroe and Chavez are on edge instantly, hands hovering near the concealed weapons I know they always carry.

Dahlia steps closer to my side, subtly placing herself between me and the door.

Even Lee, still bound to his wheelchair, sits up straighter, like he’s ready to launch himself at whatever threat walks through that door.

But Damon—

Damon lifts one hand. Calm. Steady. Commanding.

Then he steps into the hallway alone.

The second he’s out of sight, the room goes silent—the thick and suffocating kind. My grip tightens in the bedsheets, knuckles blanching white. My mind races.

Is it the Songbirds? Did they find out I was here—injured and helpless?

It would be the perfect moment for Matthias to strike. To remind us that no truce is permanent. That peace is just a pause in the bloodshed.

But no gunfire comes.

No struggle. No raised voices.

Just a pause that’s drawn out and a sickening feeling in my gut.

Until Damon reappears, unscathed, eyes flicking around the room like a silent order: Stand down.

Then he steps aside—

And behind him…

Pin-straight brown hair. Hazel eyes wide and glassy with panic—undercut by something else. Something like determination.

My heart stutters.

For a split second, it’s Amie. It has to be—

But it’s not. Of course it’s not.

“Hope,” I breathe, my voice cracking on the single syllable. “What are you doing here?”

She twists the hem of her purple plaid shirt between trembling fingers, glancing around the room like a deer caught in five sets of the world’s most intimidating headlights.

But she doesn’t bolt.

She doesn’t flinch.

She looks at me .

And something in her expression softens—like relief. Like a boat finding shore after being stuck in a storm.

“I overheard you were being transferred here from the island,” she says, her voice quiet but steady. “I just… I had to see you. To make sure you were okay. And to thank you... for saving me.”

Something cracks in my chest. If it weren’t for me, she never would’ve been in danger at all.

But I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly—that not every broken thing is my fault. That sometimes, terrible things happen so better things can follow.

“You’re the one who got help to me,” I say. My gaze flicks to Damon before returning to her. “I should be thanking you.”

I reach out my hand.

She hesitates—just a breath—then steps forward and takes it. Her grip is light. A little tentative. But it’s there.

“I think it was pure adrenaline,” she says, a small, shy smile curling her lips. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“And I hope you never have to feel that way again,” I say softly.

For a moment, I just look at her.

I can’t help it. My eyes trace the subtle differences between her and Amie. Her hair is straighter, her cheeks rounder, her voice softer where Amie’s was always a blade of sarcasm and mischief.

Hope stands here in light-wash mom jeans, a white tee, that purple plaid, a black puffer jacket slung over one arm—

Amie would’ve scoffed at the neatness, called her the quintessential girl next door . She wouldn’t be caught dead without her worn ripped jeans, an old band tee two sizes too big, combat boots scuffed to hell—daring the world to pick a fight .

“Is something wrong?” Hope asks gently, pulling me out of the memory. I realize I’ve probably been staring too long, making her uncomfortable.

I blink, heat rising to my cheeks. “No—sorry,” I say quickly, letting go of her hand. “You just remind me of someone I miss a lot.”

Her expression softens immediately. She doesn’t pry. Doesn’t ask. She just gives me that quiet, warm smile—one I think Amie would’ve liked.

I glance around the room and realize everyone’s watching. Half-curious, half-cautious.

“Everyone,” I say, sitting up a little straighter, “this is Hope.”

I introduce her to each of them.

Dahlia pulls her in for a warm hug, murmuring something kind in her ear. Monroe gives her a solemn nod—which, for him, is basically the equivalent of a hug and a handwritten card. Chavez flashes his signature two-finger salute, paired with that boyish grin.

Damon steps forward and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, low but sincere. “For helping rescue the love of my life.”

Both Hope and I blush.

Of course he had to say that out loud. In front of everyone .

Lee is the only one who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He just… stares . Not rudely—more like he’s buffering. It takes Monroe nudging his shoulder for him to blink and remember how introductions work.

“Uh—I’m Lee,” he says, stumbling over his own name. “Nice to, um, meet you.”

Hope just smiles at him like he isn’t a lovestruck idiot. “It’s really nice to meet all of you.” Then she turns back to me. “I wish I had this many friends willing to sit with me if I ever ended up in the hospital.”

I follow her gaze—sweeping across the room: Dahlia’s gentle eyes, Monroe’s guarded watchfulness, Chavez’s easy spark, Lee’s awkward charm, Damon’s ever-burning devotion .

And something warm settles deep in my chest.

It clicks, finally, with a certainty that doesn’t need to be shouted to feel true.

“Not friends,” I tell her, and my voice doesn’t shake when I say it.

Because it’s true.

They’re not just friends.

“They’re my family.”