Page 125 of Ruin My Life
He works to get the words out, as if they shred his throat on the way up.
“They beat Isabella until she was unrecognizable. Left her bleeding in a dumpster behind my apartment building. I found her too late... She died because they knew losing her would hurt me.”
I forget how to breathe.
Everything I couldn’t find online, everything his encrypted files refused to give me—thisis what turned him into the Songbirds’ number one enemy.
The storyThe King of Kingsdoesn’t want etched into data.
The kind of pain that carves itself into your bones and never lets go.
“You became The Coyote after that,” I murmur. “You went on a killing spree.”
He nods. “I vowed to kill every last one of them… but I didn’t. I made a deal with the boss. For the betterment of Kings.”
I roll the thought around in my head.
Of all the versions of Damon I’ve imagined since the night we crossed paths—this one makes the most sense.
“I’m sure most people in your place would’ve done the same,” I say.
“But most people don’t live toregretit,” he says, staring at me. “If I’d finished what I started, they wouldn’t have had the chance to go after you. Or your family.”
The realization knock the air out of my lungs.
My body pulls back on instinct.
It feels like he hit me. But he didn’t. He just told me the truth.
He won’t say who. But someone hecouldhave killed lived.
And now my family’s dead.
All of this—every drop of blood I’ve spilled, every sleepless night I’ve hunted ghosts in the dark—couldhave been prevented by a different decision.
Byhim.
But I can’t bring myself to blame him.
Because he’s not hiding from it. He’s not deflecting or running or building walls.
He’sbleedingin front of me.
Right here. Right now.
“Damon…” I whisper.
He bolts to his feet before I can reach for him.
“Tell me you hate me,” he demands, his voice rough. “Tell me I’m on your list. When this is over, I’ll get through it if I know I’m next in line for your revenge.”
He starts pacing the room like a man circling his own execution. I rise slowly and step into his path, pressing my hands against his chest until he stops moving. My fingers curl into his shirt, and I force him to meet my gaze.
“I don’t hate you,” I say firmly. “You didn’t break into my house. You didn’t hold that gun. You didn’t pull the trigger.”
His hands rise and cup my face. They’re warm, trembling with both guilt and rage.
“That’s the fucking problem, Brianna,” he growls. “Ididn’tpull the fucking trigger when I had the chance.”
