Page 42 of Ruin My Life

“Wake up,chica. Naptime’s over.”

The voice is smooth, slightly irritated, and has a Spanish accent I recognize too well. It’s the same one I heard right before I blacked out. The one that carried me out of my apartment like I weighed nothing.

I force my eyes open. Everything’s blurry at first, just shifting shadows and shapes, but he slowly sharpens into focus.

Light olive skin. Honey brown eyes that don’t flinch. A short beard, and wavy dark brown hair pulled into a loose half-bun. Two diamond studs in his left ear catch the overhead light, and there’s a thin black cross is tattooed beneath his eye.

Monroe Vargas,if my intel is right.

He’s one of Damon King’s guys. A bouncer at The Speakeasy, if I remember correctly. Though tonight, it seems his job description includes drugging and kidnapping.

I know he wasn’t one of the men who invaded my family’s home six months ago. He’s not the right build, and his eyes aren’t right. That certainty lives in my bones, burned in like a brand.

But that doesn’t mean I trust him.

The man has to be six-foot-four, built like a fortress. Every breath he takes seems to pull gravity toward him. He looks like he has to duck into every building he enters.

He’s not someone I’d ever let close voluntarily.

If I tried to fight him, I’d be lucky to make it three steps before he took me right back down again.

My throat feels like sandpaper. “Where am I?” I rasp.

I tug at the ropes cutting into my wrists and ankles—tight and expertly tied. No wiggle room. No weak knots. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

The room is small. Maybe ten-by-ten. Concrete walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling. Cold and damp, like a forgotten basement. There’s a single rusted drain beneath my chair and one metal door across the room.

Rooms like this don’t exist by accident.

This is where people go to disappear. Where questions get answered—and screams get swallowed whole.

I look back up at Monroe, but his face is unreadable. No amusement. No regret. Just that military-grade blankness that tells me he’s done this before.

“Could be your safe haven if you cooperate,” he says with a shrug. “Could be your hell if you don’t.”

I lurch forward in the chair on instinct, a sharp jolt of adrenaline pushing me an inch closer—but the ropes bite back hard, tearing into my skin. I hiss through my teeth as the sting flares in my wrists.

Monroe watches, lips twitching in something that almost resembles a smile. But it’s not the smile that angers me most.

It’s how calm he is. Howboredhe looks.

He turns away, casual as ever. “Sit tight,chica.”

The door clicks shut behind him, locking me in a silence that’s thick enough to choke on.

I yank at the ropes again, harder this time—but all it gets me are slow drops of blood sliding down my hands. The cuts aren’t deep, but they’re enough to remind me who’s in control here.

And it sure as hell isn’tme.

There’s no point wasting energy trying to get out of here. Only a handful of people could’ve traced me to that apartment. Even fewer would have the nerve to do it.

And considering the timing...

The door creaks open again. Slowly.Menacingly.

And suddenly the air changes.

It thickens. Warms. Wraps around me like a heavy wool blanket—comforting at first, but stifling the longer it lingers.