Page 85 of Ruin My Life

My throat tightens.

Don’t get comfortable,I silently remind myself.

I scrub my body clean in the shower instead. Fast and efficient. I watch the water swirl pink at my feet, disappearing down the drain over and over until it runs clear.

The burn is worse than I thought. Angry and red, with a fine split near the top where the skin likely tore. Not serious, but definitely not asfineas I claimed it to be.

When I shut off the water and step onto the mat, a knock startles me. “Brie?” Dahlia’s voice floats through the door. “May I come in? It’s best to treat the burn while it’s freshly cleaned.”

“Um, just a second!”

I fumble for something to cover myself with. My heart spikes as my eyes dart around, landing on a robe hung neatly by the tub. It’s soft, black, and stupidly thin—silk, probably—but it’ll have to do.

I tug it on and clutch it tightly to my chest. The fabric clings to my damp skin, highlighting every curve and dip. I ignore the way my fingers tremble as I tie the sash.

“Okay… come in.”

The door opens slowly, Dahlia entering with practiced caution, like I’m a feral thing she doesn’t want to spook.

She says nothing about the robe or the anxious look on my face.

“Lift your foot onto the tub’s edge for me,” she instructs.

I do as told, bracing myself against the marble tile. She kneels before me, her cool hands applying a gel-like ointment that immediately stings—sharp, biting—before the burn cools and the pain ebbs away. She wraps it in a light, breathable bandage, her fingers sure and delicate.

The silence is heavy, but not suffocating.

She doesn’t prod. Doesn’t pity. Just works.

She reminds me of my mom, in a strange way—back when she used to help bandage scraped knees or trim my bangs in the kitchen. Gentle but competent. The kind of presence that makes you feel like maybe things will be okay, even if just for a minute.

“How did you end up working for Damon?” I ask, the question spilling from my lips before I can stop it.

Dahlia glances up from where she’s securing the last piece of the wrap and smirks. “I don’t workforDamon,” she says, shaking her head lightly. “He calls me in for favours like this, and in return, I call him whenever I require his services.”

“His services?” I echo, raising a brow.

She meets my gaze evenly, head tilting. “I’m a trauma nurse. You’d be surprised how many women come into the ER with black eyes, cracked ribs, broken jaws—always withthe same excuse.‘I fell down the stairs.’ ‘Walked into a door.’But sometimes... all it takes is someone like Damon to give them hope. A connection. A reason to believe they can get out.”

My shoulders sag, the tension draining from them slowly, reluctantly.

It feels like everyone around him is trying to sell me the same thing: that Damon King is more than the shadow of the man he used to be. That his hands, once stained with violence, now build ladders instead of walls.

Maybe I’m starting to believe them.

But that doesn’t matter.

I’m not one of those women. I’m not looking for escape. I’m not someone who needs to be saved.

I’m here for vengeance. Not hope.

“How often should I change this bandage?” I ask, steering the conversation away from him.

“Leave it for a day to let the medicine absorb,” she replies. “When you shower next, you can remove it—just try not to wear anything too tight around it for a while.”

It’s familiar advice. Almost identical to what I was told last time—after the surgery that changed my life and split my body open like a book.

I nod so she knows I understand.