Page 118 of Ruin My Life

But it still hurts. Worse than I want to admit.

Damon looked me in the eye andlied.

Even after I told him what that man did to Amie. Even after I let that part of myself slip through the cracks.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until the sting of oncoming tears fades. Until the tightness in my chest dulls to something I can control.

Bury. Store away for later.

Because this isn’t about feelings.

This is about justice.

I can’t afford to sit around waiting for Damon to make a decision that should’ve already been made. He and his inner circle don’t owe me anything—and I don’t owe them my patience.

I’ll figure this out myself. I always do.

I just need a new plan.

My muscles are sore from training with Monroe—deep, heavy aches that settle into my bones like a warning. I don't smell particularlybad, but there’s a grimy sheen clinging to my skin, like every drop of sweat has been laced with adrenaline and frustration.

I head to the bathroom and immediately clock the glorious tub at the opposite end. It sinks into the floor like an oasis, surrounded by dark tile and bronze accents. There are enough jets inside to make an airport jealous.

Is it possible to be sexually attracted to a bathtub?

...Or am I just pent-up?

Probably both.

But I don’t let myself indulge, no matter how tempting the idea of slipping under that water is.

Control starts with restraint.

Instead, I climb into the shower and turn the water up hot enough to sting. I scrub hard, working out tension and sweat from every limb until my skin is flushed red.

My thigh is almost fully healed now—the burn just barely discolours the skin, a pale pink shadow of what it was.

Still, I’m careful with it. I avoid direct pressure, even though it’s sore from the tight workout clothes. It’s nothing like the pain it used to be—more of a reminder than a warning.

Once I’m clean, I step out and wrap myself in one of the impossibly soft towels. Damon keeps this place stocked like a five-star hotel. I brush through my hair, then twist it into the towel before working in a bit of my favourite leave-in conditioner. I don’t bother blow drying it. The air-dried waves always come out better—looser, wilder, less manufactured.

When I flip my hair out of my face and catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes immediately zero in onit.

The scar.

Long. Pale. Crooked. Etched from my collarbone to my sternum like a cruel artist’s signature.

I hear Dahlia’s voice again, soft in the back of my mind:

Learn to see them as proof of your strength instead of a mark of shame.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. But all I ever see is damage.

The cream she gave me has helped with the discolouration—slightly. But it’s not the look that bothers me most. It’s what it reminds me of—what itrepresents.

Gunfire. Screams.

Devil masks. Stiff carpet under my back.