Page 260 of Ruin My Life
Is it the Songbirds? Did they find out I was here—injured and helpless?
It would be the perfect moment for Matthias to strike. To remind us that no truce is permanent. That peace is just a pause in the bloodshed.
But no gunfire comes.
No struggle. No raised voices.
Just a pause that’s drawn out and a sickening feeling in my gut.
Until Damon reappears, unscathed, eyes flicking around the room like a silent order:Stand down.
Then he steps aside—
And behind him…
Pin-straight brown hair. Hazel eyes wide and glassy with panic—undercut by something else. Something like determination.
My heart stutters.
For a split second, it’s Amie. Ithasto be—
But it’s not. Of course it’s not.
“Hope,” I breathe, my voice cracking on the single syllable. “What are you doing here?”
She twists the hem of her purple plaid shirt between trembling fingers, glancing around the room like a deercaught in five sets of the world’s most intimidating headlights.
But she doesn’t bolt.
She doesn’t flinch.
She looks atme.
And something in her expression softens—like relief. Like a boat finding shore after being stuck in a storm.
“I overheard you were being transferred here from the island,” she says, her voice quiet but steady. “I just… I had to see you. To make sure you were okay. And to thank you... for saving me.”
Something cracks in my chest. If it weren’t for me, she never would’ve been in danger at all.
But I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly—that not every broken thing is my fault. That sometimes, terrible things happen so better things can follow.
“You’re the one who got help to me,” I say. My gaze flicks to Damon before returning to her. “I should be thanking you.”
I reach out my hand.
She hesitates—just a breath—then steps forward and takes it. Her grip is light. A little tentative. But it’s there.
“I think it was pure adrenaline,” she says, a small, shy smile curling her lips. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“And I hope you never have to feel that way again,” I say softly.
For a moment, I just look at her.
I can’t help it. My eyes trace the subtle differences between her and Amie. Her hair is straighter, her cheeks rounder, her voice softer where Amie’s was always a blade of sarcasm and mischief.
Hope stands here in light-wash mom jeans, a white tee, that purple plaid, a black puffer jacket slung over one arm—
Amie would’ve scoffed at the neatness, called her the quintessentialgirl next door. She wouldn’t be caught dead without her worn ripped jeans, an old band tee two sizes too big, combat boots scuffed to hell—daring the world to pick a fight.
