Page 196 of Ruin My Life

The silence that follows is thick. Cold. The kind that settles under your skin and stays there.

A chill crawls down my spine, and I try to shake it off.

I have to do something. Ihaveto.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Damon says, like he’s talking about the weather and not his own possible death. “In the meantime, you all look like shit. Get some rest. We’ll reconvene at sunrise.”

“Family breakfast at dawn?” Connor suggests lightly. “In case it’s our last?”

No one laughs. But somehow, everyone accepts it. Like this is just another part of the job. Just another gamble in a long line of near-death moments.

I tell myself it’s because they’re confident. That they trust Damon. That they’ve seen him walk into worse and come out fine.

But I’m not that calm. I’m notthem.

Because I’m done losing people I care about.

And I do care—about all of them now. Even when I swore I wouldn’t. Even when I built walls, covered them in sharpened thorns, and promised myself I’d never trust anyone again.

As everyone lugs their bags into the various bedrooms with tired steps and barely exchanged words, I glance down the hallway toward the room I stayed in before.

Before I have the chance to decide whether I should unpack and let Damon rest, my bag is lifted from my hands. Damon tosses my duffle over his shoulder, offering me a small, tired smile before carrying both our bags into his bedroom.

I guess that’s my answer.

I follow him to the end of the hall, the door closing softly behind us as he drops our bags at the foot of his bed. Then he drops himself onto the edge—slow, heavy—like the weight of everything is finally settling in his bones.

I stand there for a second, watching him, my heart clawing at my ribs.

“Is there anything I could say to convince you not to throw yourself to the wolves tomorrow?” I ask quietly.

He looks up at me with a half-smile that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. “Worried about me?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.

I press my palms into his shoulders and slide into his lap, knees sinking into the mattress at his hips, cupping his face in both hands.

His eyes meet mine. They’re dark and tired, but steady. Steady in a way that makes me want to scream.

“If I’m not allowed to run,” I whisper, “then neither are you.”

His hands settle on my hips. “I’m not running,” he says, his smirk fading into something softer. “I have every intention of coming back to you, Brie.”

My breath catches. Something unfamiliar curls in my chest, soft and warm. Hope, maybe.

“You’d better,” I huff, trying to bury the heat rising in my cheeks beneath mock annoyance.

Damon leans in, brushing slow, lazy kisses along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His fingers slide up my spine and tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to make my heart stutter.

“Remember who I am, little rose,” he murmurs against my skin. “The Songbirds may have numbers, but I’m their biggest threat. I might be walking onto their home turf, but I’m not going down easy.”

He nips at my neck, a sharp reminder of everything he’s capable of.

All of it should reassure me.

And maybe it does a little.

I know what Damon’s done. I know how many he’s taken down. I know what he’s survived. He’s dangerous in a way most men can only pretend to be.