Page 50 of Ruin My Life
A lingering scent. Something floral.
Roses.
I lower my hand slowly. It’s the same one I had tangled in her hair earlier.
It’s faint but impossible to ignore—rose petals and something else. Something warm. Soft. Stubborn.
Her.
I exhale through my nose, annoyed that I noticed—moreannoyed that Ikeepnoticing. That I remember—tooclearly—the silk of her hair. The way her breath hitched when I leaned in. The way her eyes didn’t look away even when I dared the to.
And that’s the problem.
No matter how many reasons I can list for why she has to go… there’s one louder truth humming beneath all of them.
I don’twantto let her go.
It isn’t just what she knows. It’s who she is. The defiance in her stare. The venom in her voice. The fact that she didn’t cower when anyone else would’ve begged.
She’s fire wrapped in silk. A rose blooming through concrete.
And just like every dangerous thing in life, I can’t help but want to touch her—just to see what’ll happen. To find out if her thorns will cut me deep and bleed me dry.
“Take some cameras with you,” I say finally, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “We’ll treat this like a warning. And we’ll keep eyes on her after.”
Monroe glances at me over his shoulder. One brow raised.
“And if she decides to fuck you over?”
His voice is calm. But it’s a challenge. He’s not really asking. He wants to know where my line is drawn.
I meet his gaze. “Then we get rid of her,” I say. “Same as anyone else.”
He doesn’t move. But his eyes narrow like they can see the truth under the lie.
Bullshit, they say silently.
And maybe it is.
Because I already know—I’m not going to treat her like anyone else.
Not now. Not after that look in her eyes. Not after the scent of her has branded itself onto my fucking skin.
And that makes her more dangerous than any Songbird ever was.
Not just to me.
To everything.
Chapter Ten
Brie
IT FEELS LIKEI’VE BEEN STUCK IN THISconcrete tomb for hours—alone with nothing but the relentlessthumpsof my heartbeat and the sting in my wrists for company. I’ve been twisting against the ropes, hoping I might loosen them. But all I’ve managed to do is grind my skin raw.
My wrists are on fire. My ankles too. Tiny pinpricks of blood have soaked into the twine, the cuts screaming at me every time I move. Every tug is just a reminder of how thoroughly I’ve been restrained.
In the corner of the room, Damon’s outburst from earlier still lingers—the shattered evidence of it scattered across the floor. The stool he kicked didn’t stand a chance. Two of its legs are snapped clean through, the crossbar between them splintered and jagged.
