Page 257 of Ruin My Life
“I wouldn’t know the meaning of it without you.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Brie
“HASN’T IT BEEN LONG ENOUGH?”
“Trust me,” Damon mutters, his voice dry as he spoons another mouthful of the world’s blandest oatmeal toward me. “I asked the same question.”
He feeds me carefully, like I might shatter if he’s not gentle. The oatmeal hits my tongue and I swear it tastes like shredded cardboard soaked in lukewarm tap water.
“Dahlia said the best she could do was get you out of here Monday.”
Two more days.
If Damon weren’t here, I think I might die of boredom before whatever possible infection they’re still monitoring me for could finish the job.
But it’s not the sterile white walls or the endless hum of machines that bothers me.
It’shim.
Sleeping in that lumpy chair for days. Neck twisted into angles that no human spine was designed to be in. Pretending it doesn’t hurt, just to be close to me.
I want to go home, just so I can shove him into a real bed.
And maybe eat something that doesn’t taste like soggy cardboard.
“If I eat any more of this, I might actually puke,” I groan, forcing the last bite down. “I’m pretty sureprisonersget better food than this.”
Damon arches a brow and skeptically scoops a spoonful for himself. He tries it—then scrunches his nose.
That’s all the confirmation I need that I’m not being dramatic.
“I have to agree,” he mutters, setting the bowl on the bedside tray and shoving it away. “Maybe I should buy the hospital. Force them to hire a real chef.”
I smile, but it fades when I catch the shift in his eyes.
He’s staring at me—quiet, unreadable, stone-carved features, jaw locked tight.
“What?” I ask, instantly uneasy. “What’s wrong?”
“You sold your parents’ house.”
It’s not an accusation. But it hits like one anyway.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
“And that’s… bad?” I try.
He reaches for my hand, curling his fingers around mine. Shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says, his voice low. “It’s just… the last time you were there, it still meant something to you. You shouldn’t have sold it—or your dad’s cars—just to get me out of trouble with Matthias. I could’ve handled it. And King’s Eye makes enough. I would’ve found another way to fix The Speakeasy.”
I sigh, brushing my thumb along his knuckles.
“First,” I say gently, “Matthias was my responsibility. I know you’ll never admit that, but it was my mess to clean up. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at leasttryto stop a war in Kings County.”
His grip tightens around mine.
“Second,” I continue, softer, “the house… it used to hold memories. But the last time I was there, all I felt were ghosts. The memories—they’re here.” I tap my temple. “The house was just expensive land no one was using. Selling it felt right. Especially if it means you can rebuild The Speakeasy into something bigger than both of us.”
