Page 62 of Ruin My Life
Damon Kingisa monster. But not the kind who hunts at random. He hunts with purpose. Some might call him a vigilante of sorts—though I doubt he’d ever use a word like that to describe himself.
I can’t stop wondering how he made the leap—from low-level gang recruit to theCoyoteeveryone fears.
There’s no paper trail. No whispers online. No thread I can tug to unravel the truth. Whatever changed him… it happened in the dark.
As I sink lower into the tub, letting the water crawl up my hair and into my scalp, I can’t help but think about his hands. The way he gripped the back of my neck. The pressure. The way he tugged my hair like he owned it. Like he ownedme.
The low scrape of his breath against my skin. My name on his tongue—laced with venom… and something sweeter.
My stomach flips, but not with fear.
I jolt upright, water sloshing over the rim of the tub and splashing onto the tile floor. My shoulders sting as they break the surface and hit the cold air above.
What the fuck iswrongwith me?
Damon King is not someone I should be thinking about in thebath—orat all.
He’s dangerous. He’s manipulative. He’s a goddamn ex-Songbird. Icannottrust him. Not even for a second.
For all I know, he’s already plotting how to make my death look like an accident—maybe off-property, somewhere no one will ask too many questions.
I soak until the water cools and my skin prunes like a citrus peel. Then I drain the tub and rinse off quickly in the shower, scrubbing every inch of myself with a stiff-bristled brush until my skin stings.
I wash my hair twice. Once to clean. Once to forget.
When I step out, I wrap myself in my thin white robe and pad barefoot across the bathroom and through the bedroom.
I don’t bother getting dressed. If anyone else breaks in while I’m cooking, at least I’ll be able to flash them and catch them off guard while I go for my gun.
In the kitchen, I pull up a recipe on my phone—split-pea soup in the Instant Pot. It’s the quick version of my comfort food. A lazy rendition of the one Mom used to make.
She’d roll in her grave if she saw me using canned broth and frozen peas.
Scratch that—she’drisefrom the grave just to lecture me about the importance of layering flavours and soaking legumes overnight.
The thought almost makes me smile.Almost.
As I reach into the upper cabinet for a cutting board, a sudden shiver slices down my spine. That primal instinct—the one that’s kept me alive the last six months—tightens its grip.
Someone’swatchingme…
I spin on my heels, cutting board raised over my shoulder like a weapon.
But the apartment is silent.
Windows shut. Curtains drawn. Door locked. No movement. No shadow lurking in the corner.
I lower the board slowly, my pulse fluttering in my throat.
I’m not sure I’ll ever feel safe in here again. Not after last night. Not afterhim.
Before I can fully exhale, my phone buzzes violently on the island counter. The vibration sounds louder than it should—like a scream echoing through the silence.
I snatch it up, gripping it tight to my chest before I force myself to look at the screen.
Unknown:
Good evening, Rose. Any complications I should know about?
