Page 9 of Ruin My Life (Blood & Betrayal #1)

Damon

T HERE ARE A HANDFUL OF WAYS I ENJOY spending my evenings when I’m not working.

Tracking down whoever hacked into my private network isn’t one of them.

As soon as I end my call with Monroe and Connor, I head straight for the back of The Speakeasy, into the dim little office I share with Lee.

He’s already planted at his desk, hunched over the glowing screens like a surgeon mid-operation, fingers pounding the keys in a relentless, percussive rhythm.

Even from behind, I can feel the tension radiating off him.

Lee’s always been an aggressive typer—I’d know, we’ve shared this office for years—but this isn’t his usual rhythm.

It’s harder. Angrier.

Frustration bleeds from every keystroke. Directed at whoever cracked his system.

And at himself, for not being able to stop it.

His onyx eyes haven’t blinked in what feels like hours. Deep-set shadows cling beneath them, and his wiry black hair sticks up in the back from being raked through one too many times.

I rest my forearms against the back of his chair, watching the lines of code flicker and shift across the screen. “Monroe and Connor have her,” I say quietly. “Apparently, she’s just some girl.”

Lee snorts—sharp and humourless—eyes still locked on the monitor.

“ Just some girl? Are you out of your mind?” He shakes his head, typing even faster.

“Whoever she is, she’s not just anything.

She’s one of the best I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a lot.

She slipped in like the network security didn’t even exist. Got around every perimeter I put in place without triggering a single alert.

I’m not even sure I could’ve done it that cleanly, and I built the damn system. ”

I say nothing. I don’t need to.

Out of the five of us, Lee is the calmest. Quiet. Composed. Usually unshakeable.

Seeing him this rattled? It’s new. And not a good sign.

We built this system together. Lee handled the digital security—firewalls, false directories, end-to-end encryption—while I handled the real-world variables. The human threats. The consequences.

We both thought it was impenetrable.

Apparently not.

She didn’t just breach it—she dissected it. Infiltrated every file she wanted, then slipped out without a trace.

The only reason we even caught her was thanks to a failsafe Lee buried in one of the private files.

A Trojan—not meant to block intruders, but to follow them.

Track them. It stayed dormant during the transfer, invisible even to advanced antivirus, and activated only once she saved the file to her local server.

From there, it took less than an hour for Lee to pinpoint her IP and trace her to an apartment on the boarder between Kings and Queens.

That’s where I sent Monroe and Connor.

But even with her location, we’ve got nothing solid on her. No legal name. No real identification.

Utility bills, apartment lease, burner phone—all registered under the same pseudonym: The Black Rose.

Lee’s still digging. Meanwhile, I’ve been going over every lead tied to the recent string of Songbird deaths. O’Doyle’s breathing down my neck, convinced I’ve got blood on my hands.

And yeah—he’s not entirely wrong to think it .

But not this time.

These deaths started about six months ago—same time The Black Rose moved into her little apartment.

Coincidence? Maybe .

But I don’t believe in coincidences.

And the more I search, the more tangled it gets.

On the forums, people whisper about her like a myth. They say she’s hunting Songbirds. One by one.

And if that’s true… she must have a reason. A vendetta. Or a price on her head.

Either way, I told Monroe and Connor to proceed with caution. And to sedate her if it came to that.

Lee’s fingers suddenly freeze on the keyboard.

“Damn,” he mutters, eyes narrowing as he scrolls through a forum thread.

“What?” I step in closer, my arms braced against the back of his chair.

He tilts the monitor toward me, revealing a post dated six months back—an old, buried request. It’s a simple thread. A trade offer. Information for information. The account is anonymous, signed only with a symbol: a black rose.

“She’s not just killing,” Lee says. “She’s hunting.”

The post describes two masked men, one of them with the signature Songbird wings tattooed across his chest.

“Any idea who it might be?” Lee asks, expanding the image.

I shake my head. “Too many possibilities. That ink’s supposed to mark rank, but half those idiots slap it on for clout. Could be anyone.”

Lee scrolls down. “It’s the only thing she’s ever posted. Like she didn’t exist before six months ago.”

Didn’t exist... or didn’t need to.

I rub my palm along my jaw, letting the theory marinate. I have enemies—plenty of them. But most wouldn’t be dumb enough to start a war with the Songbirds just to get to me.

“They must have offered her intel in exchange for hacking my network,” I murmur, more to myself than to Lee.

“Considering this post is six months old and still open, they probably knew she’d be desperate enough to follow through.

So I guess the real question is: who hired her, and what do they want with my files? ”

Lee doesn’t hesitate. “I can name plenty of Songbirds who’d kill for that kind of leverage.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say grimly. “But that’s the issue. Loyalty runs deep with them. Anyone willing to expose two of their own would have to be desperate, rogue, or stupid.”

“Unless they’re scamming her,” Lee suggests. “Dangling intel and planning to back out.”

“Risky.” I shake my head. “If they’ve followed the same trail we found, they’d know that’s a fast way to end up bleeding in a hotel room. She’s not just smart—she’s methodical. She doesn’t leave loose ends.”

Lee groans and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “None of this is going to make sense until we know who she really is.”

I open my mouth to respond, but the door creaks open.

Chavez steps inside—and despite being the youngest, the kid fills the doorway like a damn brick wall.

“Monroe and Connor are back,” he says, swiping his dark curls back from his eyes. “They’re getting her settled in the back room.”

“Good.” I nod to Lee and gesture to my computer. “Pull up the feed. If we can get a clean shot of her face, maybe we can figure out who she was before she became The Black Rose .”

“On it.”

Lee spins his chair and rolls across the small room to my desk setup. Chavez shuts the door behind him, and we crowd in tight behind Lee as the screen flickers to life.

The camera feed snaps into focus just as Monroe ducks into the cell, the girl slung over his shoulder like a ragdoll. Her bare legs dangle limply against his chest, arms swinging with each step.

They sedated her, just as I instructed.

Connor follows close behind with a bundle of rope, but the first thing I notice is the gauze wrapped haphazardly around one of his hands. With every pulse, it soaks further with blood, turning the white cloth a dark crimson.

“She got him good,” Chavez mutters, his lips twitching into a smirk.

Of course she did …

I’ve always been able to rely on Connor, but he has a habit of throwing himself into the fire just to feel the burn. He’s a little unhinged in that regard, which is why I never send him on jobs by himself.

Monroe’s the opposite. Calculated. Grounded. Always focused on his task and the safety of the team. He doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t let his emotions cloud the mission. Thankfully, Chavez has taken after him too.

That’s why they’re the ones I trust most.

Not because they’re clean. Because they know how to get dirty—and still stay sharp.

Monroe lowers her into the metal chair at the center of the concrete cell, her body limp in his arms. She looks fragile, almost delicate, despite what we know she’s capable of.

Lee zooms in with the camera, trying to get a clear shot of her face, but her thick chestnut waves fall forward, concealing her features. The only thing visible is her mouth—soft, full lips, parted just slightly in her unconscious haze.

Something tugs in my chest, drawing me in.

It’s a strange, unwelcome pull…

I shake it off and refocus as Monroe begins binding her wrists and ankles with the rope Connor brought in.

Once she’s secure, he leans in and lightly taps her cheek.

Once. Twice.

Then, she stirs.

Groggy and slow, she tilts her head up toward the light. Her hair shifts, cascading past her cheeks and falling away like the velvet curtains at the unveiling of a masterpiece.

Freckles dust the bridge of her nose, fading into the flushed pink of her cheeks—residual blood rush from being carried upside down. Her lips press into a tight line, and her brows twitch as the sedation fades, irritation overtaking her confusion .

Then her eyes open.

They blink against the harsh light, unfocused at first, but when they land on Monroe, they sharpen instantly—like a blade finding its edge.

Hazel, if I had to find a word to describe their colour. but they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Gold rings her pupils, bleeding into a soft green that glows under the overhead light.

It triggers something—a memory I almost forgot I had.

Sea glass .

The kind my mother used to find on Brighton Beach, just after a storm. She’d polish the shards into smooth beads, wrap them in wire, and string them into necklaces she’d sell for cash. Her niche was matching the colours to people’s eyes, and she’d spend hours searching for just the right colours.

I remember crouching beside her, digging through wet sand and broken shells for the brightest pieces. I was ten—too young to help in any other way. I thought it was the least I could do to contribute.

There were greens, blues, and ambers—occasionally golds that sparkled like real jewels.

But hers…

Nothing in that sand could ever resemble all the colours I see in her eyes.

“ Brianna Rosenberg ,” Lee announces from his desk, snapping me back to the present.

I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry and tight. “What do you have on her?”

Lee swivels his monitor toward Chavez and me. “She’s twenty-two. Student at MIT. Computer science major who won a few academic awards last year in software development. Probably explains how she managed to break into your system so fast.”

“They teach hacking at MIT now?” Chavez asks, one brow arched.

“ No ,” Lee snips, “but they teach the foundation. She just built the rest herself. Hacking is similar to deciphering code so you can understand and manipulate a system’s structure—and she’s better at it than most I’ve seen.”

I nod, my eyes still drawn to the feed. She’s alert now, blinking slowly as she takes in the room.

She may be tied to a chair, but the look on her face is barely irritated—like she was just shown into a tiny hotel room that doesn’t live up to her standards.

“Find everything,” I tell him. “I have a hunch she won’t give up whoever hired her unless we find leverage.”

Lee nods and goes back to typing, the clack of keys echoing through the small office.

I roll up the sleeves of my black shirt, ignoring the creases that’ve set in since yesterday. It’s nearly one A.M. now, and I know this won’t be quick.

I glance at Chavez who’s leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms folded over his chest. “Think I can charm her into giving me what I need?”

He snorts. “She probably already knows enough about you to see through all your usual lines.”

I don’t smile.

Because he’s probably right.