Page 81 of Ruin My Life

“I guess being a Songbird had its perks,” I say under my breath, just trying to distract myself from the ache in my ribs.

But Damon hears me.

“The opposite,” he says. “This is what I builtafterI left them. The King’s Eye paid for most of it.”

I glance back at him. For a second—just a second—his face flickers with something other than a sinister stare and devil smirk.

Guilt? Regret? Maybe both.

I wonder if it’s guilt for leaving them behind. Or guilt for surviving when others didn’t.

But I don’t ask.

I don’tcareenough to ask.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

“You keep wincing every time you move,” Damon says flatly, like it’s an inconvenience to him.

I glance down at my thigh, where the burn still simmers against my skin. I hadn’t noticed I’d been favouring my other leg, but of coursehedid.

“I’m fine,” I snap back, shrugging it off.

“You’re in pain,” he mutters. His gaze darkens as he steps toward me. “Did that fucker land a hit on you?”

I instinctively step back, but the edge of the kitchen island meets my spine, blocking my escape.

“It’s just a powder burn from when I shot him,” I grit out, though the words sound smaller—weaker—than I want them to.

“You shot down your thigh...” he says quietly, more to himself than to me. He shakes his head like he’s disappointed he didn’t put it together sooner. “Let me see it.”

“Fuckno,” I hiss, my hand flying to swat his away as he dares to brush the band of my tights. The heat of his fingers ghosts across my hip before I shove him back, sharp and fast. “Don’t touch me.”

His brows knit together, eyes sharpening with something dark—anger, worry, I can’t tell.

He opens his mouth, probably to bark something back at me—but the elevator ding, and the door slides open.

Chavez waltzes out, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees how close we’re standing to one another—me practically pinned against the island, Damon hovering over me like a storm cloud.

His brows rise, a smirk spreading slowly across his face. “I get the sense I’m interrupting.”

Damon takes a deliberate step back, creating space—but it doesn’t matter. The scent of him still clings to the air between us.

I hate how aware of it I am. Howwarmit feels even now.

“I’m not usually one to cock-block,” Chavez adds, eyes bouncing between us with wicked amusement, “but Monroe getting impatient.”

Damon’s jaw clenches, the muscle twitching in irritation, but he doesn’t argue.

“I’ll have Dahlia come check on her,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward me like I’m a piece of cargo. “Get her settled in one of the empty rooms.”

Chavez gives him a lazy two-finger salute as Damon brushes past and disappears into the elevator. The doors close behind him, and for a moment, I expect silence.

Instead, Chavez sighs at me like a disappointed older brother. “Hurt yourself again, huh?”

It’s not really a question. It’s more like a condescending observation.

My jaw tightens as my mind flashes back to the holding cell at The Speakeasy—to me, on the floor, bloodied and bound, trying to bite through panic like it were steel cables. Chavez had picked me up then. Not cruel. But not kind either.