Page 193 of Ruin My Life

Even if I looked him in the eye and watched him fall…

I know it wouldn’t bring Amie back.

It wouldn’t bringanyof them back.

And for the first time, I’m starting to question if revenge is what I want anymore. If it ever really was.

Maybe I want something else now. Something that doesn’t leave Damon bleeding in my wake. Something that doesn’t make me burn everything I touch.

Maybe peace isn’t a lie.

Maybe it’s just… harder to choose.

So I’ll try something different.

I’ll cut Damon loose from the Songbirds once and for all. Repair what I broke. Find whoever’s hunting the women he’s tried to save. I’ll dig until the trail turns to blood, and then I’ll follow it—until it leads to the truth.

It won’t make us safe. Nothing ever really does.

But I’ve lived in the shadows long enough to know—

Sometimes, safety isn’t the goal.

Sometimes, the goal is simply surviving until the next war.

BY THE TIMEwe make it back to Damon’s apartment, the rest of his inner circle is already there.

Lee is perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, his laptop open and his wiry hair sticking up from his forehead like he’s run his hands through it a billion times today. His eyes flick up at our arrival—quick but unreadable.

In the living room, Monroe and Connor are seated across from one another, locked in a silent standoff with matching glasses of amber liquid in hand. Their glares are sharp enough to cut glass. Meanwhile, Chavez leans casually overthe back of the couch, arms folded, watching the tension unfold like it’s his favourite cable drama.

Then he turns toward the elevator and gives me a knowing smile. “I had a hunch the two of you would be together,” he says, then slaps Monroe on the shoulder. “You owe me twenty bucks,hermano.”

Monroe mutters something in Spanish that sounds less than polite, then digs into his wallet and slaps a bill into Chavez’s waiting palm.

It’s not exactly awarmwelcome.

Lukewarm, maybe. Borderline civil.

But the moment Connor’s gaze lands on me, the temperature of the room seems to plummet. His eyes are sharp, glinting with quiet disdain. He doesn’t even try to mask it.

He’s obviously not my biggest fan, and that probably has something to do with The Speakeasy being in rubble across the street.

“Well, they do say keep your enemies close,” Connor mutters, raising his glass in a half-hearted toast before taking a long drink.

“Con. Enough,” Damon warns, his voice clipped, tight.

But I place a hand on his arm before he can say more.

It’s fine. I expected this.

I set my duffle on the floor and straighten my spine, taking a slow breath.

“I’m sorry for the mess I’ve made of all your lives,” I say, reciting the words I practiced in my head on the way here. “I’ve gotten used to working alone. Used to fending for myself and ignoring the consequences. But I should’ve known better—known that my choices wouldn’t just affect me, but all of you. The people you care about. So… I hope you’ll accept my help in making it right. In taking down whoever’s hurting these women.”

The room falls silent.

Eyes lock on me. Some are wary. Some surprised.