Page 114 of Ruin My Life
“Do I sense some tension in the brotherhood?” I tease, folding my arms over the counter. I keep my tone sugary sweet to conceal my suspicion. “You hide it well. Especially with the way Damon talks about you all like family.”
Monroe sighs.
It’s the kind of sound you make when you realize you’ve said too much, too fast.
“We area family,” he says, slower this time. “But no family gets by without a few brawls. I’d take a bullet for any one of them... but I’d also be lying if I said I didn’tenjoywatching Connor get stabbed thatonetime.”
My lips twitch into a smirk.
But it doesn’t last.
Because Idounderstand that kind of love. That messy, furious kind. The kind that exists somewhere between strangling and shielding someone.
Amie and I had it. We fought like wild things as kids—hair-pulling, door-slamming, threat-hurling wild. But underneath all the yelling, there was love.
Always love.
Even the last night...especiallythe last night.
We argued, yeah. But it didn’t change the fact that I would’ve given anything—everything—to protect her. To take her place.
But I wasn’t strong enough.
“I’m sorry,” Monroe says suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts so fast it feels like whiplash.
I blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. Clearing my dry throat, I lift the Coke to my lips again, buying time to compose myself.
“For what?”
“For your sister,” he says simply. “And... for the needle to your neck. But mostly your sister. No one should have to watch the people they love die.”
The words hit me somewhere deep—somewhere I keep buried behind sarcastic one-liners and ice-pick stares.
I swallow around the lump forming in my throat and force out a scoff. “Sounds like everyone around here has experience with that.”
He considers that, then nods once.
“Maybe you fit in here after all.”
I crack a half-smile. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say, trying to deflect before it gets too real.
But Monroe’s expression doesn’t change. His face is carved from stone, eyes unreadable.
“I still don’t trust you,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“But I don’t really trust anyone,” he adds.
There’s a beat of silence that feels more like a mile. But I lift my can and tip it toward him in cheers. “Another thing we have in common.”
But I can feel the moment my hardened mask slips.
Because I can’t stop thinking about what he said before—that he’d protect the others with his life. That he’s trained for this.
And the truth is, I’m not.
Before all of this, I’d never fought anyone in my life. Not even a schoolyard scuffle. No wrestling, no slapping matches, nothing. The first time I held a gun, I could barely keep my hand steady. I shot it anyway. Ihadto. But afterward, my arm shook for hours. The next day, it felt like the adrenaline had turned my entire body into jelly.
