Page 194 of Ruin My Life
Chavez and Lee both glance at Damon, like they’re waiting for him to speak first—but he doesn’t.
Instead, he just takes my hand in his, grounding me with the quiet rub of his thumb along my knuckles.
Monroe stands first.
He walks toward us, slow and measured, the weight of his presence settling like a shadow over the room. His face is unreadable—carved from stone, all hard lines and sharp quiet—and I brace for the worst. For the reprimand. The rejection. The reminder that I don’t belong.
But when he stops a couple feet away, something shifts.
A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Not cocky. Not dismissive. Just… real.
“I know what it means to be blinded by revenge,” he says, voice deep and steady, like something grounded in lived experience. “You made a mistake. So have we all. The fact that you’ve come back to try and fix it? That’s good enough for me,chica.”
My throat tightens. That means more than I can say.
Monroe was the first to doubt me—quietly but constantly. He never said much, but I always felt it. That quiet tension. The unspoken belief that I was a wildcard, a liability, that I didn’t belong in this circle he’d bled for.
So hearing this from him… it matters. It mattersa lot.
Lee swivels on his stool, turning toward us with a crooked, hopeful half-smile. “Maybe now I can finally convince you to show me how that R.O.S.E. program works,” he says, tone light and teasing—but beneath it, there’s something more. A cautious optimism. Like maybe he’s been waiting for a reason to trust me. Maybe this is it.
Then Chavez stretches over the back of the couch, arms still folded, and flashes me a grin. “Glad you’re here to stay, firecracker,” he says. “Not gonna lie, things were getting a little stale without you. A little chaos now and then keeps the blood pumping.”
I can’t help the small smile that forms—uninvited, unforced, but genuine.
Damon squeezes my hand tighter, and I lean into him, letting the weight of his touch anchor me. Letting myself feelit—the acceptance, this fractured group slowly turning toward me instead of away.
But then Connor stands.
He sets his glass down on the coffee table with a sharpclink, the sound cutting through the moment like a blade. His movements are slow. Controlled.
Everyone watches him—Monroe, Chavez, even Lee—like they’re holding their breath, waiting to see which way the wind will blow.
Connor walks toward us with that same coiled energy he always carries. Like a spring wound too tight. His face is unreadable. Not angry. Not amused. Just… cold. Guarded. Like there’s a steel door behind his russet eyes, and I don’t have the key.
Of everyone here, Connor always seemed the most laid back. He was the one willing to give me a chance back when we infiltrated Blush—even when Damon was still wary.
But now… it’s obvious. Whatever trust he once had in me has been fractured. Maybe even shattered.
And I’m not sure if the faith of those he trusts most will be enough to repair it.
Connor’s sharp gaze stays locked on me, and there’s something about it that sends a shiver crawling down my spine. It’s not just mistrust. It’s something colder—equal parts inquisitive and murderous.
“You’re unpredictable,” he says finally.
That’s…notwhat I was expecting him to say.
“But I’m hopeful,” he continues, “that working with you instead of against you will be more beneficial in the long run.”
The way he phrases it catches me off guard. It’s too calm. Too reasonable for someone who looked ready to throw me off the balcony not five minutes ago.
Before I can respond, Chavez smacks him on the shoulder and mutters, “Stop being a broody bastard. That’s Monroe’s thing.”
Connor’s scowl drops, replaced by his usual cocky grin. The switch is almost jarring.
“Sorry,” he shrugs. “I’m just really fucking itching to take down whoever’s behind this.” Then his grin sharpens. “And maybe a few more Songbird bastards while we’re at it. You know—for stress relief.”
