Page 172 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

After Nico and Killian leave, Atlas and I sit in silence.

For a few minutes, the only sounds I can hear are his labored breathing and my own heartbeat in my ears.

Then his eyes flutter open, struggling to focus as he looks over at me.

There’s something in his expression—something he’s fighting to say even though he’s obviously exhausted and still half out of it.

“Rest,” I whisper, managing a smile for the first time in days now that the immediate danger has been pushed aside.

It hasn’t passed, by any stretch. It certainly hasn’t been forgotten.

But like Nico said, we can all sleep through the night for the first time in a long time with the four of us under the same roof.

“I’m staying right here. You don’t need to talk or think or do anything except start healing. Everything else can wait.”

He shakes his head against the pillow, and even that small movement seems to cost him.

“Sleep later,” he mumbles, although his words are clearer than they were earlier. More deliberate. Like he’s forcing himself to stay conscious through sheer fucking willpower. “I need to… need to say this first.”

I want to argue, to tell him to shut up and let the pain meds do their job. But I recognize the look in his eyes. The stubborn set to his jaw that means he’s made up his mind about something.

“What you did tonight…” He swallows hard, his throat working.

“Taking that risk. Making that deal. You shouldn’t have.

” His voice gets stronger as he continues, like his need to say this is burning through the fog of drugs and exhaustion.

“Could’ve gone wrong. So fucking wrong. Could’ve gotten you all killed, and for what?

” His hand fists in the sheets. “For me? I’m not worth that kind of gamble. ”

Something snaps inside my chest at those words—a dam breaking, flooding me with all the fear and rage and helplessness I’ve been holding back. I get to my feet and walk away from the bed, needing to move, to do something with this pent-up energy before it tears me apart.

Three steps. Turn. Three steps back.

And again, with my fists clenching and releasing over and over again.

Finally, I turn back to him, leaning down close enough that he has no choice but to focus. Close enough that he can’t possibly miss the anger and truth in my voice when I speak.

“That’s fucking rich, coming from you,” I snarl, and my hands are shaking again but I don’t care.

“You want to talk about taking stupid risks? About gambling with your life? What the fuck were you thinking, staying behind at Blood and Ink?” The words tear out of me like they’ve been waiting days to be said.

“You knew what Ambrose was capable of. You knew what he’d do to you.

So don’t you dare lecture me about unnecessary sacrifices when you’re lying there half dead because you decided to play fucking hero. ”

Something flashes in Atlas’s eyes—defiance maybe, or surprise at my outburst—but it fades almost instantly. Instead of matching my anger, he just looks at me with those feverish eyes, his expression softening into something that makes my chest ache.

“I was thinking,” he says quietly, each word careful and deliberate, “that I couldn’t let anything happen to you. Not while I could still stand. Not while I could still fight.” His voice drops even lower, rough like gravel. “And I’d do it again. Every fucking time.”

I shake my head hard enough that my hair whips against my face. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not now. Not when I still need him to understand how fucking stupid this was.

“You shouldn’t have risked yourself like that,” I insist, my voice wavering despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

“It was reckless. Fucking illogical. You want to talk about what could’ve gone wrong tonight?

” I gesture at his battered body, at the bandages covering the worst of what Ambrose did to him.

“We all could’ve died trying to save you.

The whole crew could’ve gone down, and you know that’s true. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He winces a little, but I’m not sure if it’s from his wounds or the harsh truth that I refuse to sugarcoat now that I finally have him alone in front of me.

For every minute of every day for the past week, all I’ve done is pray and hope that he was still alive, that he would somehow be returned to us against all odds.

Now I’m so angry I could choke him to death if my hands would fit around his thick-ass neck. Angry and scared and worried and relieved and happy he’s home, all at fucking once.

“Nico and Killian understood what needed to be done.” He tries to shift position and grimaces, but his eyes never leave mine. “That’s why they left with you instead of staying to fight and probably die with me. Because that’s what I wanted. It’s what had to happen.”

He takes a ragged breath, like even talking this much is draining what little strength he has left.

“And logic? Logic doesn’t mean shit when someone you care about is in danger.

Go ahead—ask either of those crazy bastards if they would’ve done anything differently.

” His mouth curves into something that would be close to a smile if it wasn’t edged with pain.

“They’ll tell you the same thing. We did what we had to do.

And we’d do it again in a fucking heartbeat. ”

I shake my head again, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions threatening to tear me apart. Rage and fear and something else—something deeper and more dangerous that I’ve been trying to ignore for a long time. Maybe since the day these three men walked into my life.

“I never wanted this,” I tell him, swallowing hard as my mouth goes dry.

“Never wanted any of you to do something like this for me. You, Nico, Killian—you were supposed to be temporary. An alliance of convenience.” My fingernails dig into my palms hard enough to leave marks.

“This thing between us… it was supposed to be?—”

“Say it was nothing, vicious.” Atlas’s voice cuts through mine, sharp and clear even though I know he’s tired and hurting. “Go ahead. Tell me it meant nothing. I want to see in your eyes that you know it’s a lie.”

I open my mouth, but the words die in my throat. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, and when I finally speak, it comes out as barely more than a whisper. “It was supposed to be nothing.”

He shakes his head against the pillow, and even that small motion is filled with a fierce certainty that almost takes my breath away.

“That’s not what this is. You know that’s not what this is. Not anymore.” His gaze locks with mine. “Do you want to know what this thing between us really is?”

I shake my head, unable to force words past the tightness in my throat. Unable to admit what I’ve known for longer than I want to acknowledge.

“Say it.” The command in his voice makes my whole body tremble. Fuck. Even half-dead, he still has this effect on me. “You know what it is, vicious. Say it.”

My chest feels too tight, like all the air has been squeezed out of my lungs. Out of the entire fucking room. But I can’t look away from his eyes, and I can’t escape the truth that’s burning there. When I finally speak, the word falls from my lips like a confession, like a surrender.

“Everything.”

Something sparks in Atlas’s eyes at my confession—hunger and vindication and raw need all tangled together. His hand finds mine, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength given his condition.

“Damn right it is,” he growls, and before I can respond, he’s tugging me down toward him. His lips find mine, hot and demanding and everything I’ve been missing. The kiss deepens, but I force myself to pull back when he makes a small groan that sounds a lot more like pain than pleasure.

“Atlas—” I start to push away, worried about hurting him worse than he already is. But he doesn’t let me finish, and he sure as hell doesn’t let me get very far. His hand slides into my hair, pulling me back down to him with an intensity that’s as desperate as it is powerful.

“Don’t,” he breathes against my mouth. “Don’t make me beg, vicious. Because I will.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “I’ll fucking beg if that’s what it takes. Need this. Need you.”

The raw honesty in his voice breaks down any barriers I might’ve tried putting up, even if they were for his own good.

I lean down and capture his mouth again, trying to be gentle but getting lost in the heat of him.

His tongue slides against mine, and I can’t help the small whimper that escapes me.

Every brush of his lips reminds me that he’s here, that he’s alive, that I didn’t lose him to Ambrose’s sadistic games.

Atlas groans into the kiss, all pleasure this time, as the sound vibrates through both our bodies.

“Want you so fucking bad,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Even when they had me knocked out and half-dead, you were all I could think about.”

I pull back, forcing myself to be rational even though the heat building between us is impossible to ignore. “You’re hurt. We shouldn’t?—”

“I need this, vicious. Need to feel you. To know this is real.”

His hands find my hips, and he lifts me so easily even though the physical exertion has to hurt him, guiding me up until I’m straddling his waist. The position makes it impossible to ignore how much he wants this—wants me.

My breath catches as his hard cock throbs against me, even through the layers of clothes and sheets separating us. “Atlas…”

“Please.” His gaze locks with mine. “I told you I’m not afraid to beg. I can handle it. I need you close.”

I lean down to kiss him again, careful to avoid the visible bruises and cuts. His fingers tangle in my hair as he groans against my mouth.

“Inside you,” he breathes. “I need to be inside you.”