Page 169 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

“Oh, and Quinn? One more moment.” The leader’s voice makes my jaw clench and my stomach tighten all over again as he reaches into his expensive jacket and pulls out a small phone.

From here, it looks like a basic burner, the kind you can buy with cash and throw away when you’re done.

“Just one other small piece of business.”

He holds it out to Quinn, and everything in me screams to tell her not to take it. But we both know she doesn’t have a choice. Not anymore.

“The Syndicate will use this to contact you. When we call, you answer. Immediately. No exceptions, no excuses.”

Quinn takes the phone like she’s being handed a live grenade.

For just a fraction of a second, I catch something flicker through her eyes—worry, fear, maybe both.

But she buries it fast, her face going blank and controlled again.

Still, I saw it. I know exactly what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too.

That phone is not a gift. It’s a leash. A way for these psychos to yank her chain whenever they want, wherever she is, whatever she’s doing. They own a piece of her now, and that little black phone is how they’re going to collect.

She nods, tucking the phone away, and I watch the Syndicate members around us. They’re eating this shit up—the way their boss is marking his territory, making sure Quinn knows exactly where she stands in their fucked-up hierarchy. Making sure we all know.

Christ. What have we gotten ourselves into? What has she gotten herself into to save my ass?

The bikes are hidden a short distance away in the shadows near the cemetery gates. Nico and Killian help me limp over, but before they can figure out how to get my broken ass onto one of their rides, Quinn speaks up.

“Atlas rides with me.” Her voice doesn’t leave room for argument. Not that I’d argue—the thought of having her close, of being able to hold on to something solid and real after days in Ambrose’s personal hell, is about the only thing keeping me on my feet right now.

I bite back a groan as I get on the bike. Every movement pulls at my ribs and sends lightning bolts of pain through my knee. But I manage it, somehow. Maybe just because the alternative is looking weak in front of the Syndicate members and their bodyguards still watching us from the shadows.

Quinn swings onto the bike in front of me and waits patiently while I wrap my arms around her waist. The position hurts like a motherfucker, but I don’t care. Her body is warm and solid against mine, her heartbeat strong and steady where my chest presses against her back.

I breathe in deep, letting her scent wash over me. After days of nothing but the stink of my own blood, it’s like coming up for air after nearly drowning.

The bikes roar to life, and we pull away from the cemetery. I force myself not to look back at the marble angels and the shadowy figures. Force myself to focus on the here and now—the rumble of the engine, the wind on my face, the woman in my arms who just sold a piece of her soul to save my life.

The city blurs past us, but I’m not even trying to focus on where we are or how much farther we have to go.

My arms are wrapped around Quinn’s waist tight enough that it’s probably hurting her, but I can’t make myself ease up.

I need to feel her, need to know this isn’t just another hallucination brought on by the pain or the lack of food and water.

The engine’s vibration is killing me, but the pain is almost welcome. It means I’m alive. Means I made it. Means she made it.

Nico’s and Killian’s bikes rumble behind us, watching our six like always. Good men. Brothers. Better than I deserve, especially after getting myself caught, after making Quinn do what she did tonight. My chest tightens with something that has nothing to do with broken ribs.

The familiar streets of Quinn’s neighborhood start passing by.

Almost there. The thought hits harder than any of Ambrose’s punches.

Since the clubhouse burned and the rest of the Princes turned on us, her place has become more home than anywhere else I’ve known.

Didn’t think I’d see it again, if I’m being honest. Didn’t think I’d make it out of that warehouse alive, let alone end up here, holding on to Quinn like she’s the only thing keeping me from flying apart.

Getting off the bike is even worse than getting on it was, if that’s possible. Quinn helps, but every movement feels like getting shot all over again. The determination that’s kept me upright—through the torture, through the cemetery, through the ride home—is starting to crack around the edges.

We make it into her house somehow, and my vision starts to gray out at the edges, but I force it back. Just a little longer. I just need to hold it together a little longer.

Nico flips on lights as Killian secures the door. Quinn’s hand is steady on my arm, guiding me forward. One step. Another. The floor seems to tilt under my feet like the deck of a ship in a storm.

“Almost there,” Quinn says softly. But we both know it’s a lie. I’m done. Empty. Whatever reserves I’ve been running on are officially tapped out.

The last of my strength drains away, and my legs buckle without warning as days of torture, blood loss, and whatever cocktail of drugs Ambrose gave me finally collect their due.