Page 168 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

ATLAS

The tension in the air thickens like smoke, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that’s just my broken ribs. I force myself to scan the circle of figures surrounding us, cataloging potential threats even though my vision keeps trying to blur at the edges.

Nico’s grip on my right arm tightens fractionally—a warning. On my left, Killian’s muscles tense with barely contained violence. They feel it too, the way the atmosphere has shifted from one kind of danger to another. We may have survived the gunfight, but we’re far from safe.

I don’t know much about this syndicate, but it’s obvious that these aren’t the kind of people you turn your back on. Even with my head spinning and every breath sending knives through my chest, I can see that much.

The Dark Lotus Syndicate members move with the instinctual grace of apex predators, and their bodyguards position themselves with military precision. Like a basket of vipers, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

My body screams in protest as I try to steady myself, to take more of my own weight.

If this goes sideways, I’ll be more liability than help, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try.

The past few days are a blur of pain and blood and rage, but my instincts are still sharp.

Sharp enough to recognize that we’re surrounded by people who kill for sport as much as profit.

I count weapons, sight lines, potential cover. Old habits that Ambrose’s hospitality couldn’t beat out of me.

Quinn stands tall, her chin lifted in defiance.

But I can see the way her hand stays near her weapon, the slight tension in her shoulders that means she’s ready to move at a moment’s notice.

She feels it too—the predatory attention focused on us from all sides, the way this could all go very wrong very quickly.

My head is still spinning, trying to make sense of what just happened. The last time I saw Quinn—before Ambrose’s men grabbed me at Blood and Ink—we’d all agreed the marker was too fucking dangerous. That anything to do with the Dark Lotus Syndicate was a death sentence waiting to happen.

When Ambrose dragged me here tonight, I figured it was another trap.

The bastard’s already proven he can’t be trusted, already shown how far he’ll go to get what he wants.

Even with my brain foggy from days of whatever shit his men pumped into me between beatings, I just assumed he’d find a way to kill me before he ever agreed to hand me over.

But this… fuck. This is worse. I might still be alive for now, but Quinn is still in danger.

She didn’t use the marker for Ambrose. She didn’t find a way to destroy it.

Instead, she let these psychopaths burn it off her skin piece by piece.

The smell of her burning flesh is still in my nose, mixed with gun smoke and blood.

I can’t get the image out of my head—Quinn kneeling there, jaw clenched, letting them brand her like cattle just to get into their ranks.

And for what? For me? The thought makes me sick, makes the pain in my ribs feel like nothing compared to the weight in my chest. I got myself caught so she wouldn’t have to deal with this shit.

So she could stay clear of whatever games Ambrose and the Syndicate are playing.

Instead, she’s tied herself to them. Made herself one of them.

Sure, it worked. When she called that votum thing, they had to help.

Had to turn on Ambrose. Had to get me free.

But at what cost? These people aren’t just criminals—they’re something else entirely.

Something that makes hardened killers nervous just hearing their name.

And now Quinn is bound to them, marked by them, owned by them in some way that I’m not sure any of us even understand yet.

I get why she did it. Tactically, it was fucking brilliant—turning Ambrose’s own play against him, using his greed to lure him here where the Syndicate’s muscle could take him down.

The second Quinn called that votum thing, Ambrose was screwed.

Even his best mercenaries couldn’t match the kind of firepower the Syndicate brought to the party.

But now the math has changed. Now we’re the ones surrounded by killers, and the numbers aren’t looking good.

My vision blurs at the edges as I scan for weak points.

The big bodyguard on the left favors his right leg.

Two near the angel statue are too close together—a single burst of automatic fire would take them both.

The woman with auburn hair has the best position, but her guard’s sight line is blocked by a marble column.

Not that any of it matters. Even if I wasn’t half-dead and running on fumes, we’d be fucked if this goes sideways. Nico and Killian are solid—best fighters I know, along with Quinn—but they both have to be low on ammo after the firefight.

The man who just welcomed Quinn to the ‘family’ moves forward, each step measured and precise. My hands itch for a weapon, but Nico’s grip on my arm tightens again—a warning to stay still.

Damn, am I that easy to read? I guess I am when it comes to the people I care about. When it comes to Quinn.

“Some of my associates seem concerned about your rather creative interpretation of our traditions.” He gestures to the other Syndicate members. “But I see no rules broken here. Like you said, the marker was yours to use as you saw fit. The votum was yours to call when you chose.”

His words hang in the air like smoke. Around us, the Syndicate members shift slightly, but none speak up to challenge him.

“After all,” he continues, elaborating on his earlier statement, “our organization lives and dies by its adherence to rules. And you, my dear, played entirely within them. Surprising us all, perhaps, but breaking no laws of our brotherhood.”

“Good.” Quinn’s eyes haven’t left his. “Then we understand each other.”

“Yes, I think we do.”

The way he looks at Quinn makes my hackles go up. Like she’s a new toy he can’t wait to break. But there’s nothing I can do except stand here, useless and hurting, while this snake circles closer to her.

The man—who must be a leader of sorts in the Syndicate—takes another step toward Quinn, closing the distance between them like a snake moving in for the kill.

My muscles lock up so tight it sends fresh waves of pain through my ribs, but I force myself to stay still.

To watch and wait until we can finally get the fuck out of here.

Or until it’s time to die trying.

“I confess,” he says, circling her slowly, “when you first presented yourself to me—Jonah Kent’s daughter and her inherited marker—I had rather modest expectations.

” His voice drips with the kind of cultured accent that usually comes from private schools and old money.

The kind of money that places people above the law and any repercussions for their actions.

“But you’ve proven far more interesting than I anticipated. ”

The other Syndicate members watch in silence, and I get the feeling this is some kind of show he’s putting on. Some kind of message he’s sending.

“Intelligence. Ruthlessness. Creativity.” He ticks off the words, cataloging her qualities. “And that delightful ability to surprise. You’ll make quite the addition to our little organization.”

Quinn still holds his gaze without flinching, but I can see the slight tension in her jaw.

The barely perceptible shift in her stance that means she’s ready to move if she has to.

She knows what I know—this fucker’s interest in her isn’t just professional.

There’s something darker there, something hungry.

I’ve seen that look before. Usually right before someone decides to see how much pain a person can take before they break.

My hands curl into fists, and I have to fight down the urge to put myself between them.

Not that I could do much good in my current state, but fuck if I’m going to stand here and watch this snake play his games with her.

“If we’re done here, Malcolm,” Quinn says, her voice steady and cold, “my men and I will be leaving.”

She doesn’t phrase it as a question. Doesn’t give an inch or show any weakness.

That’s my girl. Badass right to the end .

Malcolm studies her for another long moment. The cemetery has gone dead quiet, nothing but the distant wail of sirens and the soft rustle of expensive suits as the other Syndicate members wait to see how this plays out.

“Yes,” he says finally, sighing in a way that a cat might when it’s forced to give up hunting a mouse. “I suppose we are done. For now.” The pause before those last two words makes my stomach twist.

He gestures to the bodies scattered among the headstones. “Consider it a welcome gift—we’ll handle the cleanup. No sense in leaving evidence that might lead back to our newest member, is there?”

The way he says it makes it clear it’s not really a favor. It’s a reminder that they know what Quinn’s done tonight. That they have proof of it. That they own a piece of her now, whether she likes it or not.

Quinn just nods, her face set in a mask that gives nothing away. But I can read the tension in her shoulders, the slight shift in her stance that says she wants to get the hell out of here as bad as I do. She might be acting tough, but she knows exactly how deep in the shit we are.

The sirens are getting closer. Time to move. But something in the way this snake keeps watching Quinn tells me this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. We might be walking out of here tonight, but we’re walking straight into something more dangerous than Ambrose ever was.

Quinn glances at me, and Nico and Killian get the message. They shift their grip, taking more of my weight as we start the slow process of getting me mobile. Every movement sends fresh jolts of pain through my ribs and my fucked-up knee, but I grit my teeth and manage not to make a sound.