Page 113 of Ruin My Life
“Me too.”
He lets go of James’s head, and his body collapses forward like a rag doll, chin landing in the spreading pool of red on his shirt.
The room falls silent. Except for the low hum of the warehouse lights.
And the sound of my own pulse—thudding like a war drum in my ears.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Brie
IHAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SIT STILL SINCEMonroe dragged me back up to Damon’s apartment. The walls are too quiet. The ceiling too low. I feel like I’m going to claw my own skin off if I don’t get my hands on that fucking picture again.
I’ve never felt so close to justice while still being so impossibly far from it.
Whoever that man is—whoever stole my sister’s life—Damon knows him. I saw it in his eyes. The hesitation. The guilt.
And he won’ttellme.
Maybe it’s someone he used to run with? An old friend? Someone he couldn’t bring himself to kill?
Or maybe someone he still wants to protect.
I don’t know which thought pisses me off more.
I slam the fridge door harder than I mean to. Condiments rattle in protest, the glass bottles clinking like mocking laughter.
I’m alsostarving, which doesn’t help my mood.
This high-rise has a kitchen that looks like it was pulled out of a Michelin-star chef’s wet dream—marble counters, a fridge that can tell you the weather, a state-of-the-art gas range with a fucking pot filler above it. But all they have stocked are eggs, cereal, soda, energy drinks, and half a bottle of tequila.
Oh—and a barista-grade coffee station near the corner that I’mpositivenone of these burly idiots know how to use. There’s a carafe by the sink that gets more action than a common area couch at the dorms.
It’s like I’ve been trapped inside a frat house paid for by a cartel sugar daddy.
“I know you’re upset,chica, but you don’t have to take it out on the fridge,” Monroe says, leaning his elbows on the island across from me.
“Would you rather I take it out on you?” I ask, cracking open a Coke and taking a long sip as I meet his gaze.
He pauses, like he’s actually weighing the pros and cons. “I’ve seen you fight. Wouldn’t be fair.”
I slam the can down harder than necessary. Bubbles hiss and foam at the opening. “Theonetime you saw me fight, I stabbed your friend through the hand and then you drugged me,” I remind him, my voice just as sharp as the memory. “Not sure I’d call that a fair fight either.”
Monroe scoffs. “First off, that night was business. Nothing personal.”
“Funny,” I say, arching a brow. “Because itfeltpretty personal.”
“You’re scrappy,” he admits, “but that’s different from being trained to kill. There's a gap.”
There’s a beat of silence before I ask, “What’s the second thing?”
Monroe arches a brow.
“You said‘first off,’which implies there’s more.”
He shrugs. “Second, you stabbedConnor—who’s more of an irritating liability than a friend.”
Interesting.
