Page 80 of Ruin My Life

“You seriously think me stayinghereis the safest option?” I snap, my irritation flaring hot and fast. “You’re not exactly incognito. People know who you are. It wouldn’t take much to find your address.”

“Even if they do,” a new voice rises from behind us—deep, rough, and familiar, “they won’t be able to get in.”

I whirl toward the elevator where Monroe is now leaning against the frame like some kind of tattooed gargoyle. His arms are crossed, biceps bulging against his black T-shirt. He looks like he’d rather swallow glass than have this conversation.

Perfect.

The contempt in his eyes tells me this wasn’t his idea, and he’s not a huge fan of it either.

“Right,” I mutter. “Almost forgot about your attack dogs. Where are the other two? Lurking in the shadows somewhere?”

“Working,” Damon says flatly. His attention shifts to Monroe, his tone tightening. “Someone came after her at the Sandbanks. Tried forcing her to hand over the information she has on me.”

Monroe’s expression doesn’t budge. If anything, his jaw clenches tighter.

“Maybe letting her go wasn’t your best idea then,” he says, his voice clipped and cold.

Damon stiffens slightly. Not enough for most to catch—but I do.

Just for a second, he deflates under Monroe’s harsh glare. Regret shadows his eyes before he snaps back into control.

“Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done,” he says. “Her apartment’s compromised. They hacked the cameras. She can’t go back.”

Monroe nods once. “I’ll have Lee pull the drive and see if he can recover the footage.”

Then his eyes land on me—assessing, impassive. Not cruel, but distant in a way that feels distinctly military.

“I’ll send Chavez up to set her up in a room. We’ll talk more at base.”

Damon gives him a tight nod, and Monroe turns and steps back into the elevator.

The second the doors slide shut, I raise a brow at Damon. “Are you not that guy’s boss?” I ask. “Because it really feels likehe’sthe one calling the shots.”

Damon shrugs, unbothered by my jab at his authority. “I pay his bills, sure. But he outranks me in age, experience... a few lifetimes’ worth, probably. I’d be an idiot not to listen when he speaks.”

He moves toward the living room, my suitcase still in hand. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t see anyone from my circle as employees. They’re family. That’s how I built this.”

That sentiment hits me harder than it should.

Family.

Familial bonds are built much stronger than business ones, so it’s the smarter choice. Though, I guess I’m a little surprised that he managed to find four people that he could trust enough to consider family after leaving the Songbirds.

Somehow, that makes me trust it more—not a lot, but more.

The silence that follows is thick—not hostile, but heavy. I let it stretch while I take Damon’s expansive apartment.

Calling it anapartmentfeels criminal.

The space resembles some kind of luxury compound, easily rivaling the square footage of my parents’ house. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, spilling moonlight across the rich oak floors and black-marble finishes.

A massive chef’s kitchen gleams to my right, complete with stainless-steel appliances, a six-burner gas stove, and an island that could double as a runway. It’s the kind of place my mom would’ve drooled over in those glossy design magazines she used to collect.

Beyond it, the living room dips down into plush black carpet, centered beneath a sprawling charcoal sectional and a custom entertainment setup so sleek I can practically hear Amie and my dad squealing over it.

It hurts to think about how much they would’ve loved all of this.

And howwrongit is that I’m here to see it and they’re not.