Page 170 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

My heart lurches into my throat as Atlas’s legs give out. I catch his weight on one side as he starts to fall, and Killian is there in an instant, grabbing him on the other side. Even with both of us supporting him, Atlas is heavy as fuck—all muscle, even after days of torture.

“I’m… fine,” he mutters, trying to push us away. His words slur together, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Killian just grunts at that obvious line of bullshit. “Sure you are. And I’m the fucking King of England.”

“Shut up and let us help you,” I snap, my voice harsh with worry. Seeing him like this—barely conscious, clearly in agony—makes me want to hunt Ambrose down and skin him alive. Slowly. But right now Atlas needs me here, needs me focused.

“Living room’s closer,” Nico suggests, already moving ahead to clear a path.

“No.” I shake my head. “He needs a real bed. Upstairs.”

Getting Atlas upstairs is rough. Every step draws a sharp intake of breath from him, although he tries to hide it. Stubborn bastard won’t even lean on us properly, still trying to take some of his own weight even though his legs are threatening to give out again.

My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, but I force myself to stay steady. To be the support he needs right now, even though seeing him hurt like this makes me want to lash out and inflict some pain of my own.

I’d start with Ambrose, but I definitely wouldn’t stop there.

We manage to get Atlas up to his room—the one that somehow became his over the past months, although we never really talked about it. Just like we never really talked about how his presence became something I counted on.

The light flips on, and it takes all three of us to get Atlas onto the bed. He collapses against the pillows, his face gray with exhaustion and pain. His breathing is ragged, uneven, and my chest tightens at the sound.

“Medical kit,” Killian says, already heading for the door. “Back in thirty seconds.”

“Make it twenty,” I call after him. Atlas needs help now . Some of those cuts look bad, so we need to stop them from getting infected. And who knows what kind of internal damage those bastards did to him.

Nico moves to the windows, checking the locks, drawing the curtains. Always watching our six, even here. Even now. I should help him secure the room, but I can’t make myself step away from the bed. Can’t take my eyes off Atlas.

He’s alive. He’s here. After days of not knowing if he was dead or alive, of imagining the worst, he’s finally home. Broken and battered, but still breathing. Still fighting.

The relief hits me so hard it makes my hands shake.

Killian returns with the med kit, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. “Off,” he says, gesturing at Atlas’s shirt. “I need to see what we’re dealing with.”

Atlas tries to comply, wincing as he reaches for the hem of his torn shirt. The movement pulls at whatever damage is hidden underneath, and his breath hisses between clenched teeth.

“Let me.” I move to help him, carefully lifting the fabric. It sticks in places where blood has dried, and I have to work it free as gently as possible. Every pained sound he makes feeds the rage building in my chest, but I keep my hands steady.

The shirt falls away, and my breath catches.

Even after everything Ambrose put him through, Atlas’s body is still a work of art—all lean muscle and raw power, like a heavyweight boxer crossed with a Greek god.

But now that sculpted chest is a canvas of bruises and half-healed cuts, the skin around them angry and swollen.

Those fuckers tried to break him. Tried to destroy this beautiful machine of a man. But they couldn’t do it. He’s still here, battered but not broken.

I’m going to make Ambrose pay for every mark on his skin. Every bruise. Every drop of blood. That son of a bitch is going to learn exactly what happens to people who hurt what’s mine.

But first, we need to put Atlas back together.

Killian works methodically, cleaning wounds and applying antibiotic cream with surprisingly gentle hands for someone his size. His green eyes narrow as he examines a particularly nasty bruise along Atlas’s ribs.

“At least the bullet wound was handled properly,” he mutters, probing the area where Ambrose’s men shot Atlas during the attack on Blood and Ink. “Professional work. Military-grade sutures. Could’ve been worse.” His jaw clenches. “Although not by fucking much.”

Atlas nods, his voice rough as gravel. “He… had someone patch me up. After. I barely remember it.” He swallows hard, and I can see how much it costs him to talk about it. “He didn’t want me bleeding out before… before they could use me as leverage.”

“Real fucking humanitarian,” Nico spits from his position by the window. His eyes are hard as steel. “Patch him up just so they could keep hurting him. I hope their doctor was at the cemetery tonight with Ambrose. I hope we put a bullet in his head while we were there.”

“Ambrose knew what he was doing.” Atlas’s words are coming out slowly, and it’s obvious he’s trying to enunciate each one clearly even though he’s still slurring a little. “Keep the hostage alive… till you get what you want. He’s a thorough son of a bitch.”

“Shut up,” I tell him, but my voice is soft. “Just… rest while Killian gets you fixed up. I don’t want to hear that motherfucker’s name again for a while.”

My hands curl into fists as I watch Killian continue to work. Every mark on Atlas’s skin, every wince of pain, every labored breath feeds the fury building in my chest. I want to break something. Want to hurt someone. Want to make the world bleed like Atlas is bleeding.

“Quinn.” Killian’s voice pulls me back. “I need you to hold this, or the stubborn bastard’s going to start leaking again.” He gestures to a bandage he’s trying to secure. My hands are steady as I help, even though everything in me wants to scream.

“Easy, you tank,” Nico murmurs when Atlas flinches from Killian’s touch. “Almost done, brother. Then we can pump you full of the good stuff to help you heal.”

I don’t care that Ambrose had Atlas’s gunshot wound treated. So fucking what if he made sure Atlas wouldn’t bleed out? He still put that bullet in him. Still had his men work Atlas over for days, breaking him down piece by piece like they were taking apart a car for parts.

“I warned that psychotic fuck.” My words come out in a snarl that barely sounds human.

“I fucking warned Ambrose exactly what would happen if he hurt you. Spelled it out real clear.” My stomach is so tight it hurts, rage and guilt warring inside me.

And yes, I’m breaking the rule I just made a few seconds ago about not mentioning his name, but I don’t fucking care.

This is too much. He took things too far.

“He wasn’t supposed to touch you. That was the goddamn deal. ”

“He was always going to hurt me, vicious.” Atlas’s voice is weak but certain, with that edge of steel I’ve always loved.

“That’s what he does. That’s who he is. But because of your deal…

” He has to pause, gathering strength, and Nico quietly passes him some water.

“Because you agreed to meet him, to negotiate… he pulled his punches. Told his men to be careful. To leave the important parts intact.”

I shake my head, not wanting to hear it. Not wanting to think about what they did to him, deal or no deal. Not wanting to imagine what “careful” meant in Ambrose’s twisted mind.

“No, listen to me, damn it.” Atlas reaches for my hand, his grip weaker than I’ve ever felt it but still trying to anchor me.

“Without that deal… without you buying time… they would’ve done worse.

Much worse.” His eyes lock with mine, fever-bright but lucid.

“You protected me. Even then. Even before you came for me tonight. Even before you traded a piece of yourself to those masked freaks to get me back.”

Atlas is trying to make me feel better, trying to ease my guilt. But all I can think about is how I should have gotten to him sooner. Should have found another way. Should have protected him better. Should have put Ambrose in the ground the first time he crossed my path.

“Where’d they keep you?” Nico’s question cuts through the heavy silence.

His tone is tactical, almost clinical, but I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

This is how he processes shit—gathering intel, making plans, trying to prevent the next disaster.

“Any landmarks? Sounds? Smells? Give me something to work with, brother.”

Atlas closes his eyes, like even thinking about it costs him more strength than he has left.

“Underground. Basement or… a bunker, maybe. No fucking windows.” His words are getting more slurred, exhaustion and pain meds starting to take hold.

“Couldn’t hear much. Traffic sometimes, I think.

But far away. Like… like being buried alive in concrete. ”

“How many men we looking at?” Nico presses on, and I know this is killing him—having to push Atlas for information when he’s barely holding it together.

But we need to know. Need to understand what kind of hornet’s nest we’re up against. “Besides the ones we dropped tonight with our new buddies in the Syndicate.”

I grunt at the sarcasm. For everything that went right tonight, it could’ve gone very, very wrong. Our new associates at the Syndicate looked like they wanted to hand me a slow, painful death after the way I manipulated the situation tonight.

So yeah, definitely not our buddies. Not now. Not ever.

And that’s okay with me, just as long as they keep up their end of the deal we’ve made.