Page 120 of Ruin My Life
Brie
IWAITED A FEW HOURS AFTERIHEARDDamon come back.
They had one of their usual late-night “family dinners”—just after one in the morning. All of them were there, minus Connor, who’s probably covering a shift at The Speakeasy.
I didn’t join. I never do.
And considering what I’m about to do tonight, I shouldn’t start pretending like I’m part of their inner circle now.
I sat in my room while they ate. Listening. Waiting. Until, one by one, the others left. Their voices faded behind the elevator doors. Laughter turned to silence.
Now, it’s just me and Damon. Alone.
He hasn’t come looking for me. Hasn’t knocked. Hasn’t even tried. He’s letting me stay in the dark, and I can feel it—how comfortable he is with keeping me there.
But I’ve lived in the dark before, and I know how to find my way through it.
When the quiet finally settles across the apartment like a second skin, I twist the doorknob and slip into the hallway. It’s almost exactly like the other night—silver moonlight bleeding through the windows, stretching long shadows across polished floors.
The massive apartment is cloaked in stillness. And yet... it doesn’t feel empty.
It’s like something—someone—is still awake. Still watching.
I move quietly, barefoot, my silk shorts riding up my thighs as I walk. I silently hope he’s not in his office. I need him out in the open—unguarded.
In the living room, I let my fingers trail along the wall until they find the light switch. When I flip it, soft amber glows ambiently along the baseboards and beneath the cabinets, casting the whole room in something warm and low and private.
And I find him.
Damon’s slouched in his usual spot in the far corner, one leg stretched out, an untouched drink in his hand. His eyes lift to mine slowly, heavy-lidded like he’d been dozing—though judging by the purple bruising beneath them, I’d bet he hasn’t truly slept in days.
He looks…wrecked.
But when his gaze drags down the length of my legs, pausing at the hem of my shorts, I know he’s notthattired.
Good. My plan depends on that.
“You’re up late again,” he says, his voice graveled from either whiskey or weariness—maybe both.
“You’re brooding again,” I reply, descending into the sunken living room, each step deliberately slow and cautious.
He tips his glass, sipping the dark liquid within before setting it down on the end table. “And does that scare you, little rose?”
I tilt my head. “You don’t scare me.”
The ghost of a laugh escapes his throat—dry and humourless. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cushions like he’s surrendering to gravity.
“I heard you and Monroe were sparring earlier.”
“We were,” I say, crossing the room and lowering myself onto the couch—close enough to be casual, far enough to be calculated. “Though I’m not sure it counts as sparring if I didn’t manage to land a single hit.”
“You challenged the best of the best,” he says without looking at me. “The fact that you’re still alive means you did something right.”
I raise a brow. “You don’t thinkyou’rethe best of the best?”
“Not by a long shot.”
His answer is quiet. Honest.
