Page 8 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Brie

I ’VE ONLY BEEN ASLEEP FOR ABOUT TWO hours when a bright white light flashes across my face. It’s jarring and relentless. Like a strobe light in a haunted house.

It’s my silent alarm.

The small device on my bedside table is rigged to the motion sensors scattered throughout the apartment.

Which means…

Someone’s inside .

I jolt upright, the adrenaline kicking in before my brain fully catches up. I fumble for the alarm and tap in the four-digit code to stop the flash before locking my eyes on the bedroom door.

My breath catches and stays there, frozen in my throat.

The apartment is quiet except for the wind whistling against the windows and the soft flutter of curtains beyond the door.

Maybe I left the window open. The breeze could’ve blown the curtain into motion.

It’s possible. Probable, even.

But I don’t move.

Still as a corpse, I count five deep breaths.

I slide out of bed in one smooth motion, planting on the balls of my feet.

My gun’s locked in the safe in my office—which is stupid, in hindsight—but my fingers already know where to go.

A switchblade. Tucked between the mattress and the headboard .

Cool metal kisses my palm as I grip the handle tightly, ignoring the sweat slicking my skin as I tiptoe toward the bedroom door.

Every step is silent. Every shift of weight deliberate.

I press my ear to the wood and listen.

My heart pounds like it wants to punch a hole through my ribs, but I try to ignore it.

I don’t hear any movement. Just wind. Just my pulse.

I twist the knob and inch the door open.

It squeaks, loud in the silence, but I don’t flinch. I hover in the threshold, eyes sweeping the living room, lit faintly by moonlight spilling through the curtains.

No one’s there.

At least… not anymore.

I step out, knife at the ready, eyes flicking toward the shadows that gather in the corners. Every instinct in my body is vibrating, coiled and waiting.

The curtains billow, and I freeze.

The window is open.

Not cracked— wide open .

That’s the one with the fire escape outside.

I never open it. Not when I have a perfectly functional window in the kitchen for fresh air.

The closer I get, the colder the air becomes. My stomach sinks lower with every step.

The outer ledge of the window frame is bent—warped, like someone forced it open with a crowbar or screwdriver. The lock is a twisted piece of scrap metal dangling loose in the corner.

Shit.

My nails dig into the top of the windowpane as I slam it shut, trying to keep my breaths even.

I reinforced the door when I moved in. Replaced the deadbolt. Upgraded the frame.

But I never thought about the goddamn windows.

Stupid.

And then—I see it.

In the glass. A flicker of movement reflected behind me .

A figure, hidden just beyond the reach of the moonlight, standing still in the shadows of my galley kitchen.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hood raised.

No mask—but his face is cast in shadow.

Then he grins.

Wide. Gleaming. White.

A grin too similar to the demon mask that still stalks my nightmares.

It’s him.

It has to be.

The bastard who tried to kill me six months ago.

The bastard who slaughtered my family.

The bastard who missed.

He came back to finish what he started.

But I’m not the girl he left on the floor anymore.

And I won’t give him the chance to take another shot.

I grip the edge of the curtain, pretending to smooth the windblown fabric while keeping my eyes on his reflection.

He moves slow—too slow. Each step he takes is deliberate. Predatory. Like he’s savouring the moment right before the strike.

I adjust my stance. Grip the knife tighter. Take a breath.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

I yank the curtain wide, moonlight pouring into the room—and I spin on my heel, blade flashing as I drive it toward his face.

He lunges, going for my wrist. But I’m faster.

My blade slices deep into the meat of his palm—through skin and tendon until it grinds against bone.

His strangled curse hisses through clenched teeth as he jerks back, blood pouring from his fist, soaking into his sleeve in thick crimson rivulets.

I go for him again, aiming for his throat.

But this time, he catches my arm.

His grip is strong—slick with blood but unrelenting. He rips the knife from my hand and throws it across the room. It clatters against the floor and skips out of reach, each bounce a beat of dread pounding in my chest.

I twist, slipping free of his grasp thanks to the blood slicking his hand. I take two steps back—

—and stumble.

My heel catches on the plush rug and I lose my footing, bracing for the cold smack of hardwood.

But it never comes.

Because I fall into someone else instead.

Warm. Solid. Huge.

Shit—

Thick, coiled arms snap around me like steel cables, locking me against a body even larger than the first. His chest rumbles against my back with the weight of his breath, and I barely manage to gasp before a rough hand slams over my mouth.

I thrash. I kick. I scream into his palm—

But he doesn’t loosen his grip. Not an inch.

I twist my head and bite down on his hand. Hard .

I taste salt, sweat, skin—but no blood.

He grunts, but he doesn’t let go. My jaw throbs with the effort to tear through his flesh, but it’s not enough.

He adjusts his hold, one hand cupping my chin, forcing my head back, while the other—

No.

A sharp sting pierces my neck.

Cold floods my veins, spreading like frost. It moves too fast—shooting through my bloodstream like fire laced in ice.

I try to fight, but my arms betray me. My legs weaken.

A numbing sensation takes over, like my body’s fallen asleep all at once.

My fingers twitch uselessly at my sides. The room spins.

No—

Darkness licks at the edges of my vision.

I want to scream. I want to fight. I want to kill .

But I can’t even move.

I fall limp, crumpling backward into the same embrace I tried so desperately to escape .

The one I stabbed stands in front of me, just a few cautious steps out of reach. He’s yanked one of my kitchen towels from the drawer and wrapped it around his hand, but the white fabric is already soaked through with blood. Crimson seeps through his fingers, dripping in thick drops to the floor.

Their voices echo through the tunnel of my fading consciousness, warped and distant—like I’m underwater.

“Shit. My hand is fucked, ” the first one grumbles, his breaths short and ragged.

“You knew she’d put up a fight, tonto del culo, ” the second replies, his thick Spanish accent curling around every word. He hoists me higher on his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all. “Remember what she did to some of those Songbirds?”

Those Songbirds.

As in… not the two of them.

If they aren’t Songbirds—then who the hell are they?

My head lolls against his back as the thought tumbles through my mind, heavy and slow.

Bloody-hand scoffs. “Are you seriously saying ‘I told you so’ right now, asshole ? ”

“ Vamos. You can bitch later,” the other snaps, shifting me roughly. His arm tightens around my legs, fingers gripping the curve of my thigh like he's done this a hundred times.

I dangle there—limp, vulnerable, blood rushing to my head with every jostling step. My vision has already started to smear into blurry lines and bleeding colours. The lights from the hallway stretch like melting stars, and my ears pulse with each beat of my sluggish heart.

Still, I fight.

I strain to listen. To remember. To hold onto the slivers of information falling through the cracks of my mind.

Who they are.

Where we’re going.

Who the hell wants me enough to send these two after me.

The elevator hums. It’s faint, but familiar. We’re descending, all the way down to the underground parking garage .

Figures they’d be smart enough not to park on the street. These aren’t amateurs.

Neither one of them speaks as we reach the bottom. There’s just silence and the sound of my body shifting on his shoulder as he adjusts his grip again.

Then, leather.

Cool. Smooth. And reeking of that god-awful Black Ice air freshener every man on earth seems to think women find sexy.

My cheek smushes against the leather as I’m dropped into the back seat of a car. It vibrates under me, a soft purr in the chassis—engine running.

One of them slides into the driver’s seat, then the other gets in beside him.

Their conversation shifts.

Not about me.

About dinner.

“Burgers?” one asks, casually.

“Eh. Let’s get Thai,” the other replies. “I’m not in the mood to shit bricks later.”

My mind screams. You just kidnapped someone, and now you’re debating chicken pad thai or McDonalds?

Unreal.

I want to yell. Laugh. Spit blood on their stupid leather seats.

But I can’t move.

I’m silent in the back seat, limp and useless, as they continue to treat me like a package already wrapped and tagged.

Then a phone rings.

The driver taps a button on the dash, and the car’s speaker crackles softly to life.

“Target acquired,” he says. “We’re on our way back.”

Target acquired? People actually say that in real life?

Jesus.

A new voice responds.

Low. Smooth. Dangerous .

The kind of voice that doesn’t have to shout to command a room—or kill someone.

It slithers out of the speaker, practically brushing the shell of my ear with how close it feels.

“Good,” the voice says, slow and venomous.

It immediately makes me shudder.

“Bring her to me.”