Page 107 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I’m not here.

This isn’t happening.

Those words are on repeat in my head as I fight against the panic. No, I refuse to be a victim again. I’m Quinn fucking Kent, and I won’t go down without a fight.

With a surge of adrenaline, I thrust my hips upward, throwing the attacker off balance. His grip loosens for just a second, but it’s enough. I twist my body, breaking free from his hold.

My elbow connects with his face, and I hear a satisfying crunch. He howls in pain, reeling back. I scramble to my feet, my hand finally reaching for the gun at my waist.

But he’s fast, lunging at me before I can fully draw the weapon. We crash into the dresser, sending the gun and half a dozen framed photos clattering to the floor. Glass shatters around us as we grapple for control.

I knee him in the groin, and he doubles over. Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, I slam my forehead into his. The impact sends shockwaves through my skull, but it’s worth it to hear him cry out in pain again.

He staggers backward, blood seeping through his mask.

“Who sent you?” I snarl, my voice raw with fury as I raise my fists.

He doesn’t answer, just charges at me again. But this time, I’m ready. I sidestep his attack, grabbing his arm and using his momentum to slam him into the wall.

My fingers find the edge of his mask, and I yank hard, determined to see this bastard’s face. But he twists away at the last second, slipping from my hands.

Before I can react, he’s out the door, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. I start to chase after him, but he’s already gone by the time I reach the front door.

I stand in the doorway, staring after him as the adrenaline slowly drains away. The reality of what just happened begins to sink in, and I feel my knees buckle as my whole body starts to shake.

My mind is reeling, but I have enough sense to close the door and lock it before bracing myself against the sturdy frame. I’m still shaking and I know I need to calm down. I need to gather my thoughts and think rationally for a minute before?—

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway jolts me back to reality. For a split-second, I panic, thinking the intruder has come back to finish the job he started.

But then I listen closer, and my shoulders relax just slightly. I know the sound of that engine. Killian and Atlas are home.

“Shit,” I say out loud as I look at the glass and debris scattered all the way down the stairs from my bedroom.

Yeah, no way to cover that shit up.

Not that I want to keep the attack a secret, at least not from them. But because I’m just not ready to relive it. Or talk about it. Or deal with all the crazy fucking chaos that seems to swirl around me non-stop these days.

I dash to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stares back at me, wild-eyed and disheveled.

If that reflection was a friend, I’d tell her she was looking pretty fucking rough around the edges.

“Quinn? You home? Killian’s voice echoes through the foyer.

I force myself to step out of the bathroom, plastering what I hope is a casual smile on my face. “Hey, guys, how was?—”

My voice catches as I see their expressions change. Killian’s eyes narrow, scanning the stairs behind me. Atlas takes a step forward, concern etched on his face.

“What the fuck happened here?” Atlas asks, his gaze fixed on the second-floor landing where it’s easy to see the overturned dresser and shattered glass littering the floor.

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My hands start to tremble, and I clench them into fists, willing them to stop.

I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Someone broke in. Tried to attack me upstairs.” I gesture vaguely toward the mess behind me, trying to keep my tone matter-of-fact. “I fought him off. He ran.”

Killian’s eyes darken, and Atlas takes another step forward, his hand reaching out as if to touch me. I flinch involuntarily, and he stops, his arm dropping to his side.

“Are you hurt?” Killian asks, his voice tight as his eyes move up and down my body, no doubt taking a mental inventory of every cut and scrape.

I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”

I’m not, but I need to be. I can’t afford to fall apart now.

“Did you see his face?” Atlas presses.

“No,” I admit, meeting Atlas’s eyes. “He wore a mask. But he was skilled, trained. This didn’t feel like some random break-in.”

Killian’s jaw clenches. “The Saint?”

I nod slowly. “That’s my first thought. But why? If he still believed you all were spying on me, he wouldn’t need to send someone else.”

The implications of that statement hang heavy in the air. If The Saint isn’t buying our ruse anymore, we’re in deeper shit than we realized.

“He might have figured out we’re working together,” I say, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since the attack. “If that’s the case, we need to reevaluate our entire strategy.”

Atlas runs a hand through his hair, his expression grim. “If he knows, we’ve lost our biggest advantage. We’re back to square one, with the added risk of him coming after all of us now.”

I blink, trying to focus on the conversation, but my thoughts keep slipping away before I can fully grasp them.

The room feels too hot, too small. I’m not sure if it’s the after-effects of all the adrenaline in my system or some sort of PTSD response from all my old trauma, but I need to get it under control.

The last thing I need right now is for my body to start giving out on me.

“We need to…” I start, but the words trail off as a wave of nausea hits me. My skin prickles, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

Atlas is saying something, but his voice sounds distant, muffled. I nod, pretending to follow along, but the truth is that I’m barely holding it together.

“Quinn?” Killian’s voice cuts through the fog. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

I open my mouth to reassure him, but the lie won’t come. My legs feel wobbly, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall.

“I’m fine,” I manage to croak out, but even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds.

Killian steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines me. “You’re pale as a fucking ghost, and you’re shaking.”

I want to brush off his concern, to be the tough-as-nails Quinn they expect, but my body betrays me. A tremor runs through me, and I can’t stop it.

“It’s nothing,” I insist, but my voice wavers. “We need to focus on what this means for?—”

“Shit,” Killian interrupts, his gaze fixed on my side. “You’re bleeding.”

I look down, surprised to see a dark stain spreading across my shirt. How did I not notice that?

“Your stitches.” His expression is as carefully schooled as ever, but the tightness in his voice betrays at least a hint of emotion. Is he worried about me? “They must have torn during the fight.”

I stare down at my bloodstained shirt, feeling oddly detached from the situation. It’s like I’m watching this happen to someone else.

Killian’s voice cuts through my daze. “Come on, I need to take a look at that. Upstairs, now.”

I blink, trying to focus. “But we need to talk about?—”

“We’ll talk later. First, we deal with this.”

I glance at Atlas, half-expecting him to object. But he just nods, his gaze flicking from me to Killian and back again. “Go. I’ll clean up down here.”

Killian’s hand on my arm is surprisingly gentle but still insistent as he half-guides, half-pushes me up the stairs. I follow, my legs feeling like lead with each step.

We reach my bedroom, and I wince at the mess. The overturned dresser, shattered glass, and scattered belongings take me right back to the fight, right back to the trauma.

“I think I might throw up,” I say, more to myself than Killian.

He steers me toward the bed, steadying me for those last few steps. “Sit. I need to take a look at those stitches.”

I perch on the edge of the mattress, grateful to be off my feet and suddenly very aware of how close he is. He kneels in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

“I need you to take that shirt off for me.” His tone is even and commanding, and his deep voice soothes the wild panic inside me, just a little. “Can you do that, or do you need help?”

I shake my head, my fingers fumbling with the hem. “I’ve got it.”

I manage to shrug off the shirt, hissing quietly as the movement pulls at the opening wound. Killian’s eyes narrow as he examines me.

“Yeah, you definitely tore a few stitches,” he says, then disappears into the bathroom for a moment before returning with the first aid kit. “I can patch it up, but it’s going to hurt.”

Steeling myself, I give him a curt nod. “Do what you need to do.”

I grit my teeth as he starts to clean the wound. The sting of antiseptic is nothing compared to the memories that keep finding their way to the front of my mind. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it steady, but I can feel the tremors starting again.

No. Not now. I can’t fall apart in front of him .

I clench my fists, willing my body to stop betraying me. But it’s no use. The shaking intensifies, and I know Killian notices when his hands pause.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine. “This is a normal reaction after what you’ve been through.”

I bristle at his words, hating how easily he can read me. “I’m fine. Just finish patching me up.”

He sets the gauze aside and grimaces. “You’re not fine. I’ve seen you like this before, remember? It’s PTSD. You can’t just will it away.”

“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me,” I bite out, pulling away from him. “You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

“Maybe not exactly, but I know enough. We can’t control what triggers these memories.

Trust me, I know.” He ignores my huffed breath, continuing anyway.

“You think I don’t have my own demons? I can’t wade into a fucking lake without having flashbacks of my mother trying to drown me.

Random things can set it off, and there’s no shame in that. ”