Page 96 of Ruin My Life
She takes a slow breath beside me. Her face is composed, solid as stone. But her hands give her away. She’s twisting her knuckles, rubbing them like she’s trying to clean a stain only she can see.
My gaze is locked on her hands as I lean back against the elevator wall. Then, behind her, I reach out with one knuckle and trail it gently up the line of her spine—skin to warm skin. I don’t let my hand wander anywhere that might cross a line. I just want her attention on me, not whatever storm is stirring inside that beautiful mind of hers.
Her body stiffens.
Her hands still.
Her head lifts and her eyes snap to mine—sharp, irritated.
But she doesn’t pull away.
There’s no smirk on my face, no trace of my usual taunts. And maybe that’s why her glare softens—just slightly. Enough for curiosity to flicker behind her gaze.
And a hint of something else.
Brie is a vault—with no handle, and no key. What little escapes is unintentional, and even then, you have to know how to look for it. But that’s what makes it so goddamntempting. Every glance, every twitch of her fingers, is a clue I want to piece together with careful hands.
It only makes me want it more.
To figure out the mystery that isher.
To peel back those outer petals that’ve been damaged by the world and reveal who she really is on the inside. Who she might’ve been had this life not already begun to wither her.
I’ve been thinking about what Dahlia said.
She won’t come to you for help when she needs it, but it’s likely she will need it all the same.
I’ve been trying to figure out what she meant by that since she said it—it's actually what I was stewing over the other night when Brie finally came out of her room to eat something and found me sitting in the dark.
I’m used to people needing my help, but I’m also used to them asking for it—or at the very least showing signs that they want it.
But Brie would rather die than admit to needing anything from anyone. Which means if I want to protect her, I’ll have to watch her closely. Learn the signs she doesn’t even know she gives.
That’s why I touched her. Not for me. Not for the thrill.
But to offer solace.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. She steps away from me immediately, putting space between us like she’s reclaiming her boundaries.
I let her go.
I want to reach for her. Hold her hand. Tug her back into that space where my fingers were still brushing her skin.
But I don’t.
She wouldn’t let me—not yet.
Maybe not ever.
BLUSHLOOKSinconspicuous from the outside—just another aging structure in a forgotten neighbourhood. Rusty red brick, windows blacked out with paint, and a front entrancedisguised as someone’s townhome. Arched brickwork frames a plain black door, unmarked by signage. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never find it.
The only giveaway is the mountain of muscle planted at the door, arms crossed over his chest like he’s auditioning to be a gargoyle.
We’re parked across the street, tucked into the shadows of an alleyway. The SUV’s engine is off, but the tension thrums like a live wire between all of us.
“Remember the plan,” Monroe says from the driver’s seat, glancing at us through the rearview mirror. “Once you’re inside, you need to find Lola. Lee’s confirmed there are private rooms in the back. That’s where she does her deals—but they’re locked down. You’ll have to get her to invite you in.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Connor says, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt beneath his jacket like he’s about to walk a red carpet. “Not many women can resist my charm.”
