Page 77 of Ruin My Life
He pauses, clearly considering it, but doesn’t argue. Just shifts into drive and pulls out of the garage.
“Guessing you don’t need my address,” I say dryly, resting my temple against the cool passenger side window.
He flashes me that same smug grin I’ve come to loathe. “No, Brianna, I don’t need your address.”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
The next words spill out like a reflex. I’ve said them countless times to professors, study partners, new acquaintances. It’s just muscle memory by now.
“You can call me Brie. No one calls me Brianna.”
“Brie,” he repeats, drawing it out like he’s testing how my name fits in his mouth. “We’re close enough for nicknames now, are we?”
I scowl and cross my arms, shifting further toward the door. “It’s not a nickname. It’s literally my name. Besides, not like it’s stopped you from calling melittle roseevery damn chance you get.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “Right you are, little rose.”
I sigh, long and slow, already regretting every word I’ve said tonight.
This alliance—whatever it is—is going to get exhausting fast.
And if I’m stuck in close quarters with Damon King for longer than a few hours, there’s a very real chance one of us won’t make it out alive.
UNEASE CURLS LOWin my chest the second we get to my apartment. I’m not sure if it’s Damon’s looming presence behind me or the residual panic simmering from what happened at the hotel, but I move cautiously—punching in my door code and flicking on the lights before I’ve even made it through the doorway.
Everything looks the way I left it. My dishes are still on the counter, untouched since dinner. My day bag is on the kitchen island, where I swapped a few essentials into a smaller clutch. And when I jiggle the office doorknob, it’s still locked.
My lungs expand a little easier.
I toe off my heels and shrug out of my coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. When I turn to glance at Damon, though, he’s still sharp and coiled, like he’s waiting for something to lunge out of the shadows.
“You never got that window fixed, did you?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “In thetwo dayssince your guys busted it in? No, can’t say I got around to it.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he draws his gun and flicks the safety off.
Every nerve in my spine tightens. I move behind him, hovering a hand over my own weapon, my pulse matching the slow sweep of his gaze as he stalks from room to room.
We find nothing. No signs of a break-in. No trace of an uninvited guest.
Still, his jaw doesn’t unclench.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” I mutter, more annoyed than anything. “Don’t touch anything.”
He glances at me, distracted. “Be quick.”
No teasing. No cocky comment about joining me. No smug grin.
Something about him feelsoff—and that unsettles me more than the silence itself. I try not to think about it as I shut my bedroom door.
The dress I wore peels off my skin, dried blood sticking like a second layer. My thigh stings and I spot the graze on my leg from where my own shot skimmed me. There’s a slight burn left from the heat of the gunpowder, but nothing too serious. The skin’s red, peeling back in some spots, but I choose to ignore the pain. I can wash it off when I get into the shower.
I’m just grabbing a pair of leggings and an oversized grey T-shirt when I hear Damon’s voice through the door.
“Not fucking possible,” he mutters, angry and low.
I pause, clothes in hand. “What’s wrong?” I call, trying to keep my tone neutral.
