Page 232 of Ruin My Life

When he emerges, it’s worse than the lighter fluid.

A chef’s knife.

Long. Sharp. Gleaming under the overhead light.

My whole body goes cold.

He eyes his reflection in the blade, smirking like he’s admiring what he sees.

“And you know what, Brianna?” he says, his voice eerily calm now. “As useful as I thought you’d be… you’ve turned out to be a real pain in my ass.”

My brain screamsmove—but my body can’t obey fast enough.

He drives the knife into my stomach—buries it deep until only a sliver of silver glints outside my skin.

I scream—raw and ragged, the sound of agony ripped out like an exorcism.

Connor watches my pain with a grin before turning away, vanishing down the hall with the lighter fluid sloshing in his hand like a final insult. He doesn’t even look back.

He’s already decided I’m dead.

I fight for breath—try to keep it shallow and controlled—but every inhale sets my lungs on fire.

I thought getting shot was the most painful thing I could ever experience.

This is worse.Somuch worse.

The knife is still wedged in my gut. The pressure keeps the bleeding steady for now, but every twitch grinds metal against muscle.

I’m trembling all over. Sweat soaks my hairline. Blood pools hot and sticky onto my thighs.

One truth cuts through the haze, and my choice becomes crystal clear.

I can die here. Or I can fight like hell.

I grit my teeth and wrench my wrists against the zip ties. The pain is excruciating—my already-raw skin tearing open even more—but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

I yank and twist and stretch the plastic until one hand rips free. The indents left behind on my wrists are deep enough to bruise bone.

My hands spasm. Numb at first. I rub my raw wrists, force a drag of air into my lungs, and grab the knife handle.

You’re not supposed to pull a blade out if you’ve been stabbed.I know that. But I don’t have time to wait for a miracle.

So I do it anyway.

My fingers wrap the handle—slick with my own blood—and I tug.

It slides free with a wet, sucking noise that flips my stomach inside out. A cry tears from my throat—half scream, half gasp—as I slam a hand over the wound, feeling the hot rush of blood pulse between my fingers.

Breathe. Breathe. Don’t stop now.

My vision flickers at the edges. I lean forward, maneuver the blade down to my ankles, fumbling until I find the zip tie and saw through the plastic. It splits with a clean snap.

I’m free.

Not safe. Not okay.

But free.