Page 235 of Ruin My Life

Forme.

His body folds like dead weight, collapsing across my chest. The knife is still embedded in his neck when my vision clears. Blood is everywhere—on my hands, in my mouth, soaking the carpet under us.

I gag, choking on heat and copper and smoke. I shove him off me with a scream that tears through my raw throat. My muscles quiver, groan, burn—

But I get him off.

He thuds to the carpet. Lifeless.

It’s over.

It’sfinallyover.

I lie there for a second, dragging air into my lungs. My head pounds. I can feel the blood loss clawing at my edges—warm blood still spilling out of my stomach as my body goes cold, fingers numb. When I lift my shirt, it’s soaked through. The wound gushes harder now without the blade there to plug it shut.

Fuck.Not good.

I clamp my hand over it, but pain flares—white-hot, sickening, unstoppable.

Across the room, the woman from earlier still lies motionless. For a moment, I think she might even be dead.

But then—she stirs.

I crawl to her, dragging myself on trembling elbows, slick with sweat and blood. I grip her shoulder, shaking her gently at first, then harder.

“Wake up, come on,” I rasp, my breaths tearing inside my throat. “You need to wake up.”

She groans, head rolling to the side. Blood beads along her hairline where Connor struck her. Her eyes flicker open—confused, glazed.

“What… happened?” she mumbles. “Who are you?”

“Questions later,” I snap. “We have to get out of here.”

The fire has swallowed the walls. It hisses through the carpet, tongues of flame crawling over furniture like they’re hunting us down. Heat wraps around my limbs in suffocating waves.

I push to my feet. The woman scrambles up too, half-stumbling behind me.

The back of the house is built the same as Rebecka’s. Floor-to-ceiling windows. All glass.

Our only chance.

I limp to them, brace myself—slam my boot heel against the pane.

Thud.

Nothing.

Thud.Still nothing.

Triple-pane glass. Of course it is.

“Stay here,” I rasp, then stagger back to Connor’s corpse.

I need his gun. It’s our only chance to break the window. But it’s not in his hand. Not near him. I groan, bend over with shaking arms—roll his dead weight just enough—

There. Under him. Mired in blood and broken glass.

I reach for it, my fingers inches from the grip—