Page 160 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

Their voices drop lower, but I’ve heard enough. I continue my casual circuit, pausing here and there as if deciding which pool to choose.

Near a waterfall feature, another woman speaks in hushed tones into what looks like a crystal pendant around her neck. “Tell them the price just doubled. If they don’t like it, they can find another supplier.” She catches me looking and her hand closes around the pendant.

I pretend to be fascinated by the intricate tile work along the edge of the pool as two more women enter through a hidden door I hadn’t noticed before, their conversation already in progress.

“—biggest deal of the quarter. Cooper is hosting the signing dinner himself tomorrow night.”

“In the private dining room?”

“Where else? You know how he likes to keep the important stuff close.”

As I move farther in, the atmosphere shifts.

The pools grow more intimate, private alcoves revealing themselves as I round a corner.

I spot a pair of women entwined in each other’s arms, their laughter bubbling over like the water surrounding them.

One leans back against the stone edge, her head thrown back in pleasure as her partner kisses a path down her neck.

A realization hits me as I continue past several similar scenes: some of these women aren’t just here for relaxation. They’ve brought paid escorts with them.

It’s as intriguing as it is unsettling—not that I give a shit about how two adults choose to spend their evening. No, I’m more interested in the fact that they don’t seem to care about the law or being seen like this. It speaks to the exclusivity and safety of this place.

I slip past another intimate group, keeping my eyes averted, and spot what looks like a private steam room tucked away in a corner. Perfect. The frosted glass door swings open at my touch, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Eucalyptus and something else—something expensive that I can’t identify.

The room is mercifully empty except for one woman who appears to be meditating in the corner. She doesn’t even crack an eye open as I enter. The steam swirls thick around me as I settle onto one of the smooth marble benches, letting my eyes adjust to the diffused lighting.

That’s when I notice it—a massive mirror covering most of one wall, partially fogged up from the steam. My pulse quickens. This could work.

I stretch, making a show of working out tension in my shoulders while checking that the other woman hasn’t moved. She remains still as a statue, her breathing deep and even.

Moving closer to the mirror, I use my palm to wipe away some of the condensation, creating a clear patch.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I carefully trace the hidden pattern from my shoulder onto the smooth surface.

The steam immediately starts to fog it up again, but that’s fine—better even.

It’ll still be there long enough to get noticed by the person who needs to see it, and then it’ll be gone.

The woman in the corner shifts slightly, and I quickly lean back, pretending to be focused on breathing in the therapeutic steam. But she just adjusts her position and continues her meditation.

I close my eyes, counting my breaths to slow my racing pulse. The marker’s symbol is out there now, hidden in plain sight.

I stay in the steam room for what feels like an eternity, but is probably only about ten minutes. The heat seeps into my muscles, making me feel languid and heavy. Perfect cover for anyone watching.

And someone is definitely watching. There’s no visible security in here—can’t have cameras in spaces where wealthy women are naked, after all.

That would be a lawsuit waiting to happen.

But there are always ways around the rules.

Infrared sensors. Motion detectors. Cameras hidden in the smoke alarms or air vents.

The woman in the corner finally unfolds herself from her meditation pose and pads out of the room without a word.

I’m alone now, which should make me nervous, but doesn’t.

The mark is there on the mirror, the outline still partially visible beneath a fresh layer of steam. Anyone looking for it will find it.

But minutes tick by, and nothing happens. No subtle signal. No mysterious woman appearing with a message. Not even a change in the steam’s temperature or scent.

I stretch again, rolling my shoulders like I’m working out tension. Really, I’m scanning every corner of the room one last time. The mark has to have been seen by now. Someone should have responded.

Unless… I’ve read this whole situation wrong. Unless this really is just an overpriced spa with some illegal side businesses, and Malcolm has nothing to do with the day-to-day shit.

I push myself up from the marble bench and begin retracing my steps back through the cavernous spa. Time to cut my losses and get back to Killian and Nico. Maybe they’ve learned something over on the other side of the building.

As I pass one of the larger pools, two women in black uniforms—no-nonsense jumpsuits this time, rather than the silky robes and skirts I’ve seen on the other employees—appear in front of me, blocking my path. Their stances are casual, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way they’re watching me.

“Ladies, we need the room cleared.” The taller one’s voice carries across the water, firm but professional. “Please exit through the main doors.”

Murmurs of protest rise from the pools. A woman with elaborate tattoos covering her back shoots us an annoyed look as she climbs out of the water.

“Is this really necessary? I just got comfortable.”

“Management’s orders, ma’am. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

One by one, the other guests emerge from the water and begin filing out. The sounds of splashing and conversation fade until only the gentle burble of the fountains remains.

The shorter woman turns to me, her dark eyes unblinking and intense. “Mr. Mercer would like a word with you.”