Page 76 of Ruin My Life
“Comfortable?” she echoes, her scoff bouncing off the tile. “You wish.”
She’s not wrong.
My mind flashes with images of her naked in that bathroom—steam curling around her as she slips into a bath. Blood and grime peeling away from her soft skin until she’s finally clean. Her hands—strong and steady—working over every inch of herself.
That same rose scent she always wears rising with the heat, sticking to my skin even when I’m nowhere near her.
I grunt, because it’s safer than agreeing.
Safer than knocking the door down and showing her just how badly Idowish.
Chapter Sixteen
Brie
IFI’M GOING TO BE SHOVED INTO SOMEmystery safehouse under Damon King’s protection, I’m going to be goddamncomfortabledoing it.
Once his cleanup crew arrived, it took them less than thirty minutes to erase the mess from the hotel room—Calvin’s blood, his body, the evidence of the fight. The place probably hasn’t been this clean since the day the foundation was poured.
I, on the other hand, am still crusted in blood and sweat. And while I won, I can't pretend that didn’t get far messier than I’d planned.
I wasn’t prepared for Calvin to show up tonight. I should have been—should’ve anticipated that working for a faceless employer would come with strings attached. But I got complacent. I gotsloppy.
And Damon? He threw me off worse than Calvin did.
That little performance back there—where I half expected him to pull the trigger just to prove a point—was exactly the distraction I needed.
But I’ll never admit that out loud. His ego’s already inflated enough.
As soon as the crew leaves, along with the corpse they’ll no doubt dispose of creatively, Damon leads me to the parking garage. A sleek, semi-familiar SUV sits there waiting.
“Do I get to ride shotgun this time,” I mutter as we approach, “or should I just throw myself into the backseat and save you the trouble?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” he asks, pulling open the front passenger door.
“Did you expect me to?” I shoot back, sliding in.
He smirks and shuts the door without another word. I watch him circle the hood, eyes scanning the shadows even though his expression reads like he’s on vacation.
It’s easy to forget that beneath the polished King of Kings facade, he’s still The Coyote—trained by a gang that kills for loyalty and burns cities over bruised egos.
He’s killed Songbirds. Hunted his own. Long before he had an inner circle to clean up after him, Damon King made himself into a legend.
And as much as I hate it, part of me feels safer with him nearby.
He slips behind the wheel, starts the engine.
Before he can pull out of the spot, I say, “Take me to my apartment.”
He doesn’t even look at me. Just exhales like I’m a toddler insisting he let me try to touch the stovetop.
“I thought we had this conversation upstairs, little rose. But if you want to beforced... I can oblige.”
My stomach twists—not out of fear, but from something darker. Something curious.
How would he force me?I wonder.
“No,” I grumble. “I just need to grab a few things. And maybe take a shower before I catch a disease from that guy’s blood.”
