Page 140 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I flip through another one of my dad’s old sketchbooks, my eyes scanning each page for anything resembling the symbol we’re searching for. The house is quiet, except for the occasional rustle of paper and my frustrated sighs.

It’s been days of this. Days of poring over my father’s sketchbooks and artwork, postcards and notebooks—hoping to find some clue, some hint of the marker that’s put a target on my back.

The tension that always seems to be in the air these days has only gotten worse, settling into my bones like a constant ache.

I rub my eyes, feeling the strain of hours spent scrutinizing intricate drawings. The coffee beside me has long gone cold, forgotten in my desperate search.

“Come on, Dad,” I mutter, turning another page. “Give me something.”

But it’s just more of the same—beautiful sketches, sure, but nothing that looks like our elusive symbol. I’ve gone through so much of his shit now that it’s all just a blur.

I grab another book, this one older than the rest. The pages are yellowed, the binding cracked. As I flip through it, a thought strikes me. What if the symbol isn’t in one sketch, but pieced together from several?

With renewed energy, I start laying out pages side by side, trying to match up lines and shapes. I move sketches around, flipping them, rotating them, desperate to see some semblance of the marker we’re looking for.

But it’s not working. No matter how I arrange the sketches, they don’t form anything close to what we need. The hope that had flared up moments ago fizzles out, leaving me feeling more drained than ever.

I toss the sketchbook aside, frustration boiling over. “Dammit!” I slam my fist on the table, sending papers scattering.

This isn’t just about finding a symbol anymore. It’s about survival. Ever since Zoey’s betrayal, everything’s gone to shit. The fragile alliance we’d built, the safety net it provided—gone in an instant.

The walls feel like they’re closing in. Our territory, once somewhat secure, could turn into a war zone at any minute. It’s like we’re back to square one, with enemies on all sides.

My mind races, trying to piece together a plan. But how do you fight a war on multiple fronts when you’re not even sure who some of your enemies are?

I grab my phone, scrolling through my contacts. Who can I trust? Who’s left that isn’t gunning for us?

The list is depressingly short.

A noise outside makes me jump. I rush to the window, peering out through the blinds. It’s just a stray cat, but my heart is pounding like it’s a hit squad.

This is what it’s come to. Jumping at shadows, seeing threats in every corner. It’s Silas all over again, but worse. At least then, we figured out who the enemy was.

Now? Now it could be anyone.

I sink into a chair. How did we end up here? One minute we’re on top, the next we’re scrambling just to stay alive.

My eyes drift back to my father’s sketches strewn across the floor. There has to be something there, some key we’re missing. But even if we find it, will it be enough? Can one symbol, one piece of information, really turn the tide against the shitstorm we’re facing?

I pick up a sketch, staring at it without really seeing it. We need more than just a symbol. We need allies, resources, a fucking miracle.

But right now, all we’ve got is a pile of old drawings and a target on our backs.

I push aside the sketchbook and go back to massaging my temples. The Saint and the remaining Princes of Carnage—two threats, each ominous in their own right. We’ve managed to hold them at bay so far, but it’s a delicate balance.

There’s no doubt in my mind that we’re spread too thin. One attack could leave us vulnerable to the other.

Zoey and Stefan haven’t made a move yet, but they’re out there, biding their time. Our scouts report their growing numbers, their weapons. We may have dealt them a blow, but they’re not finished. Not by a long shot.

Meanwhile, The Saint, ever-elusive, is like a ghost that’s still haunting us.

I shake my head, trying to clear the ominous thoughts.

We can’t let our guard down, but the more we focus on defending against the remaining Princes, the less we watch for The Saint.

It’s a game of cat and mouse, and we’re struggling to keep up.

My hands are restless, tapping against the table. I scan another sketch, this one a detailed drawing of a city street I don’t recognize. As I move to set it aside, my fingers catch, tearing the page.

“Shit.” I frown at the torn paper, a mix of emotions washing over me. Regret for damaging my father’s work tangles with the frustration of our current situation.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Dad?” I ask the air, my voice tinged with grief. “Why leave me with this mess?”

The unanswered questions hang heavy, adding to the weight on my shoulders.

I smooth the torn page, trying to will away the damage. It’s a wasted effort. The rip only serves as a reminder of how little I have left of him.

Sighing, I return to the task at hand, flipping through more sketches. But my heart isn’t in it anymore. The same shapes and lines blur together, offering no answers.

The silence is broken by the sound of footsteps. Killian walks in, his eyes immediately going to the chaos of papers. He takes in the scene, that observant gaze never faltering.

“Still no luck finding the symbol?” he asks, his voice low and steady.

I let out a frustrated huff. “It’s not here.” I gesture to the mess on the floor. “Years of his work and nothing. No clues. Just useless pretty pictures.”

He steps farther into the room, his eyes never leaving mine. “What do you want me to do?”

“Not much left to go through at this point. So… whatever.” I shrug, feeling defeated. “Whatever you think will help.”

I watch as Killian considers my words, his eyes scanning the mess of papers one last time. Then he nods, a look of determination crossing his face. He strides across the room toward me, his movements purposeful.

Without a word, he takes my hand, his grip firm but gentle. I feel a jolt of surprise as he leads me out of the room, leaving the scattered pages of my dad’s artwork behind.

“What are you doing?” I ask, not even trying to hide my confusion and curiosity.

He doesn’t answer, just continues to guide me through the house. My mind races as we climb the stairs, trying to figure out what he’s up to.

We reach my room, and he heads straight for my closet. I watch, bewildered, as he rummages through the hangers. After a moment, he pulls something out—a familiar outfit that makes my breath catch.

It’s an outfit I wore to Le Bal Masque. The memories of that night flood back—the music, the masks, the need for release.

Killian holds the outfit out to me. “Put this on,” he says, his voice low and intense.

I look up at Killian, my heart stuttering in my chest. His eyes are intense, focused entirely on me. It’s like he can see right through me, past all my defenses.

“That look on your face,” he says softly. “It’s the same one you had when you used to go to the club. When everything got too much and you needed a release.”

I swallow hard, surprised by how accurately he’s read me. It’s not just that he noticed—it’s that he remembers, that he’s paid such close attention. I’m not used to having people around who see through me so completely, who know me so deeply.

“I…” I start, but the words catch in my throat. How do I express how touched I am by this? How do I tell him that his understanding means more to me than I can say?

Instead, I reach out and take the outfit from him, my fingers brushing against his.

Killian nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, turning to leave. “I’ve got something of my own to change into.”

As the door closes behind him, I look down at the outfit in my hands. Memories of nights at the club flood back—the pulsing music, the anonymity of the masks, the freedom to just… be. I slip into the familiar clothes, then step out into the hallway once I’m fully dressed.

Killian is there, waiting. He’s changed too, wearing an outfit similar to what he used to wear to the club.

I follow Killian downstairs, my heart racing with anticipation. The familiar outfit feels like a second skin, bringing back memories of nights spent losing myself in the pulsing beat of the club.

He leads me outside to where his bike is parked. The cool night air hits my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. Killian swings his leg over the seat, then turns to me with an outstretched hand.

I take it, climbing on behind him. As I settle onto the seat, I can’t help but shiver at the feel of his muscled body in front of mine. I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing close.

The engine roars to life beneath us. As we take off into the night, I’m struck by how different this feels from all those nights I rode to the club alone. Back then, I was always hoping, always searching for something—or someone—to take me out of myself for a while.

I used to go to the club hoping to get fucked by The Phantom. But tonight, I know I will.