Page 43 of Ruin My Life
He doesn’t walk in.
Hearrives.
Tall. Composed. Shadowlike.
His shoes gleam beneath the flickering fluorescent light—black leather, polished enough to catch my reflection if I weren’t too busy taking in the rest of him.
Dark slacks. Black button-up—the collar undone just enough to hint at his sun-kissed skin and dark ink beneath. Tattoos swirl across his forearms, billowing like smoke rising from the flames drawn across his knuckles.
He moves with a predator’s grace. Not loud or fast—butdeliberate. Every step closer cranks the tension in the room tighter.
And I know—withimmensecertainty—this isn’t a man who came here to play games.
This is the man the Songbirds are afraid of.
The man I was sent to betray.
Damon King.
Even without the photos I’ve seen, I’d know it’s him.
Everything about him fits the stories—the sharp jawline, the piercing stare, the way he carries himself like the room already belongs to him.
Confidence bleeds from his posture. Not the flashy, try-hard kind—the dangerous, lived-in kind. The kind that says:I know what you’ve done, andI’ve killed people for less.
His hair is dark, effortlessly neat on the sides and slightly mused at the top. Rogue strands cast shadows across his brow, and the light seems to avoid his eyes entirely.
They’re the darkest brown I’ve ever seen—so dark they might as well be black. If someone told me they were made of obsidian, I’d believe them.
And when he smirks, the gleam of his sharp canines is pearlescent white—like something predatory smiling at you before it bites down on your throat.
He carries a wooden stool in one hand and sets it down across from me with practiced ease, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull, finalthud.
The silence that follows is complete.
No footsteps outside. No echo. Just the soundproof void, pressing in on my eardrums until I can hear my own blood pumping behind them.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He sits—casual and in control. His gaze rakes over me, taking in every detail—from the mess of my hair to the sleep-creased T-shirt I’d worn to bed, all the way down to my bare legs.
There’s no shame or suggestion in the way he looks.
Just calculation. Disassembly.
I shift in the chair, metal biting into the backs of my thighs. The coolness of it brushes places I’d rather it didn’t.
I squeeze my legs together.
All I wore to bed were thosestupidlace panties…
He catches the motion, and his gaze lifts back to mine—now displaying a spark of interest. The corner of his mouth twitches—half amusement, half curiosity—and he clicks his tongue.
“I’d introduce myself,” he says, his voice as smooth as velvet, “but it seems you already know plenty about me.”
His tone doesn’t ask. It confirms.
A chill slides down my spine, but I grit my teeth and force my body to stay still—to give him nothing.
