Page 143 of Ruin My Life
But this was never about trust. Or loyalty. Or Damon King.
This was aboutAmie.
It was always about Amie.
Damon wasn’t part of the plan—he was a detour.
A dangerous, beautiful detour.
I let myself feel something for him, and now that softness is blooming against my chest like a bruise I can’t stop poking.
No.
Not now.
I force the thoughts out and refocus.
Regret can wait. Guilt can wait.
Right now, I have a job to finish.
At the back of the garage is a narrow metal staircase leading up to a loft. The windows overlook the shop floor, but the blinds are drawn tight. It was probably meant to be an office, but the glow bleeding out from between the blinds and beneath the door tells me it’s something more.
A makeshift apartment. A safehouse.
Soon it’ll be a coffin.
I take the steps silently, my gun raised. I hear the faint static of a television—some old sitcom rerun playing in the background. It masks the soft creak of the stairs well enough.
The door at the top is hollow-core wood with a thin deadbolt—not designed with high-security in mind.
I brace myself against the wall and rail, take one step back for leverage, and slam my boot into the door just beneath the lock.
It splinters on impact.
The door swings inward, crashing against the wall with a sharpbang. My gun is already up.
Alexander bolts from his recliner like I lit him on fire.
He’s taller than I remember. Broader too—muscle packed on over what used to be lean and wiry control. His jaw’s thicker now, clenched like he still thinks he’s in charge of something.
But his eyes?
Those haven’t changed.
Ice cold. Unforgiving.Evil.
The same ones that have haunted my nightmares.
The same ones that watched my world burn.
He charges like a bull—wild, heavy, fast—and I don’t have time to line up a proper shot before he slams into me.
My finger jerks. The bullet punches the ceiling, sending plaster and dust snowing down as we crash into the wall.
He’s stronger than me. I knew he would be.
But strength isn’t everything.
