Page 108 of Ruin My Life
But the burn is the same either way.
I lift my chin and meet his gaze.
“Okay,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “I trust you.”
And I wonder if the lie slipped as easily off my tongue as his did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Damon
IT TOOK AN HOUR OF BACK AND FORTHbefore I could convince Brie to go back to the apartment.
She wants blood—and she wants ittonight. And hell, if this were anyone else she was hunting, I’d be the first to hand her the bullet. Watch her pull the trigger. Hold her steady while she did it.
But this isn’t justanyone.
Monroe’s keeping an eye on her now, making sure she doesn’t hack her way into making herself a target before we have a chance to plan our next move. She said she trusted me. But I saw the hesitation in her eyes after. The silence that curled inward like a fist.
She thinks I’m lying. Or holding back.
And she’s right.
In The Speakeasy’s back room, Connor, Chavez, and I are crowded around Lee’s desk. It’s tight, too hot, and the tension’s starting to bite. It hasn’t let up since we all saw that picture.
Lee’s eyes are locked on his screens, dissecting every scrap from Lola’s burner. Aside from the photos, there’s nothing. No name. No traceable contact. Just enough breadcrumbs to keep us running in circles.
“So,” Connor drawls, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall, “are you gonna tell her?”
There’s no tease in his voice. No smirk. He’s pissed. The way he always is when anything stinks of Songbird.
“She’ll figure it out eventually,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. My temples are pulsing. “I just...fuck. I need a second to think.”
Chavez shakes his head slowly, his jaw tight. “What are the odds it’shim? Out of every bastard in New York... it had to be fuckingXander O’Doyle.”
Just the name makes my pulse spike.
My fists curl. Before I can stop myself—
Crack.
My knuckles slam into the desk. The wood splits beneath my hand, a spiderweb of fractured grain.
“I should’ve killed that fucker when I had the chance.”
Connor scoffs. “Yeah. No argument here.”
Alexander O’Doyle.
The prodigal son of Matthias O’Doyle—the leader of the Songbirds. He was the golden boy. The heir. The one who took me in and called mebrother.
The one I nearly put in the ground.
I haven’t seen him in two years. Not since the night I walked away from them for good. Not since I pressed a gun to his temple, cocked the hammer, and listened to himbeg.
My finger was on the trigger.
And still—I hesitated.
