Page 51 of Ruin My Life
One of the sharper pieces has rolled toward the metal drain beneath me—just far enough away to make me furious. If I could get my hands on it, I might have a shot at cutting through these ropes.
I shift in the chair, inching it forward with jerky movements, twisting my hips just enough to make a little more progress. My toes brush against the shard of wood.
Once. Again.Closer.
But my arms are bound tight to the tops of the chair’s back legs, and even with it so close in reach, I can’t grab it.
Gritting my teeth, I lean to the left, tipping the weight of the chair. It wobbles. My fingers graze the edge of the wood. So damn close.
I stretch further—
And then the chair tilts too far.
It crashes to the floor with a deafening crack. My shoulder slams against the concrete, pain detonating along my side.
My head smacks the ground next, and stars bloom across my vision in a violent burst. My arm gets pinned between the floor and the chair’s heavy frame, and agony shoots through it like a live wire.
The metal door bursts open, and I brace myself.
For what, I’m not sure.
A blow? A boot to the ribs? Something worse?
But instead, I’m lifted off the ground—chair and all—and set upright again.
The sudden return to vertical leaves my head spinning. Through the pain radiating from my skull, I blink up at the man standing over me.
Not Monroe.
This one’s younger. Bigger, somehow. Built like a brick wall in motion. He has shorter brown curls, golden-brown skin, and striking ocean-blue eyes that don’t quite match the rest of his hardened exterior. A faded scar curves beneath his right brow, drawing attention to the intensity of his stare.
I know him. Read about him. He’s another one of Damon King’s handpicked few.
Equally loyal. Equally protective. Equallydangerous.
“Chavez,” I mutter, more to myself than him.
He crouches beside me, fingers surprisingly gentle as he tilts my chin and inspects the bruise forming near my temple.
“You’ve already gotten yourself into a lifetime of trouble,” Chavez murmurs. His voice is low, warm in a way I didn’t expect it to be. “Try not to add a concussion to the list.”
The tenderness in his tone throws me off.
A little toogood cop, if you ask me.
I scowl. “Why does it matter? You’re not planning on letting me leave here alive anyway.”
Something flickers in his eyes—like disappointment. Maybe regret.
But before he can respond, the temperature in the room changes.
A familiar presence slides in like smoke under the door.
Damon.
“You surprise me,” he says, his voice cutting through the space with that same velvety amusement that always sounds just a little too smooth to be real. “Didn’t think you were the type to roll over at the first sign of danger.”
I glare at him, my jaw clenched tight. “You say that like you know me.”
