Page 174 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

It’s morning when I finally open my eyes. My body is curled around Atlas’s, careful even in sleep to avoid his worst injuries. One of his hands is tangled in my hair, the other resting on my hip like he needed to keep me anchored to him through the night.

The first thing I notice is that he’s already awake. Those expressive eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he looks away for even a second.

“You stayed,” he says quietly. His voice is still rough from sleep and yesterday’s ordeal, but at least he’s here with me.

At least he’s able to speak at all. There’s also something vulnerable in his tone that makes my chest ache—like he’s surprised, even now, that someone would choose to stay with him through all the roughest times.

I grunt and burrow closer, mindful of his bandages. “Of course I fucking stayed.” My own voice is sleep-heavy, and I’d kill for a glass of water, but that’ll have to wait. “I’m never letting you out of my damn sight again.”

The words come more harshly than I intend, raw with all the fear and helplessness of the past few days.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him going down at Blood and Ink.

See him staying behind so the rest of us could escape.

See him disappearing into the screaming and the smoke and the gunfire while I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

Never again. I’ll burn down the whole fucking city before I let anyone separate us like that again.

Atlas’s fingers tighten in my hair as if he can read the dark turn of my thoughts. “Quinn,” he starts, but I shake my head against his chest.

“I mean it,” I tell him, propping myself up on one elbow so I can look him in the eye. “That separation shit? That noble sacrifice bullshit? We’re done with that. The next time someone comes for one of us, they’d better be ready to take all four of us. Because I’m not watching you disappear again.”

His eyes darken at my words, and I see my own fierce protectiveness reflected back at me. The same need to keep, to guard, to destroy anything that threatens what’s ours.

“That works both ways, vicious,” he says softly, dangerously. “Anyone who wants to hurt you is going to have to kill me first. And I’m real fucking hard to kill.”

Something shifts in Atlas’s expression. A flash of vulnerability beneath his usual intensity that makes my heart stutter.

It’s rare to see him like this, with his walls down.

Even after everything we’ve been through—and even though he has a tendency to be more expressive than Nico or Killian—he usually keeps his emotions firmly in check.

“Will you do something for me?” he asks, and there’s an undertone in his voice that’s raw and needy enough to make me do a double-take. His eyes search mine, like he’s afraid to even voice what he wants.

“I need—” His jaw tightens as he cuts himself off.

I can see the emotion burning in his eyes. And even though I don’t know what he’s about to ask, I find myself nodding.

“Yes.” The word slips out before I can stop it, but I don’t regret it. In this moment, with him looking at me like that, I’d probably give him anything he wanted. I’d probably burn down the whole fucking world if he asked me to.

His hand slides down to my hip, thumb brushing over one of my tattoos. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me. “You’ve got tattoo equipment here, right?”

The request surprises me, but I nod. “Of course. I’ve got my backup kit in the closet.” I study his face, trying to read his intentions. “Want me to get it?”

“Please.” It’s so seldom that my men ask for something that the word takes me by surprise all over again.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he gestures to his bandaged torso. “I’ll stay right here.”

When I return with the case, he’s watching me with that same intense need in his eyes.

“That night at your tattoo parlor,” he says, his voice rough with remembered rage.

“Watching that motherfucker put his hands on you… it made me fucking crazy.” He reaches out to trace the mark just above my breast, and his touch is as electric in this moment as it was that night.

“I wanted to rip his throat out with my bare hands.”

“Atlas—” I start, but he shakes his head.

“Let me finish. I—I need to say this.” His eyes bore into mine.

“Even though we were supposed to be enemies. Even though I had no right to feel that way. All I could think about was marking you. Claiming you.” He swallows hard, and I can see the memory burning in his eyes.

“Couldn’t stand seeing someone else’s hands on what should’ve been mine. ”

The possessiveness in his voice makes heat pool in my belly. I should hate it—should bristle at the idea of belonging to anyone. But I don’t hate it. I didn’t hate it that night and I know for sure, without giving it a second thought, that I’d let him claim me all over again.

“I needed everyone to know you were spoken for,” he continues, barely above a whisper now.

“I wouldn’t have been able to rest until I saw my mark on your skin.

” His thumb traces the design again, sending shivers through me.

Then that flash of possessiveness sparks in his eyes again. “But that’s not enough anymore.”

The words hang between us, making my heart stutter. A flicker of worry runs through me—after everything that’s happened, after nearly losing him, what else could he need?

“What do you mean?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended, betraying the sudden tension I’m feeling.

He takes a breath, like he’s steadying himself for something. “It’s not enough just to have you wearing my ring. Not enough that you’re the only one marked.” He looks from that spot on my chest to my eyes and back again. “I want to wear your mark too. Just like Nico does.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. Nico’s ring, the actual wedding band that symbolizes our sham marriage? That was different. That was done out of necessity and convenience.

But the mark Atlas gave me—along with the ones next to it from Killian and Nico—mean something else. Something true and honest and permanent in a way that even a gold wedding band doesn’t quite capture.

“I want the whole fucking world to know who I belong to,” he continues. “I want a permanent reminder that I’m yours. That I chose this. Chose you.”

I shake my head, trying to think past the way my heart is beating so loudly in my ears. Past the growing lump in my throat. “Maybe we should wait. You got shot not that long ago. You’re bruised and beaten half to hell?—”

“No.” He catches my wrist, pulls my hand to his chest where I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, echoing my own.

“Listen to me. When they had me in that fucking basement or cell or whatever the fuck it was—when everything was dark and I couldn’t tell what was real anymore—the only thing that kept me sane was thinking of you.

Of you and my brothers.” His fingers tighten around mine.

“Knowing you were with me, even if I couldn’t see you. Even if I couldn’t reach you.”

I suck in a ragged breath and he swallows hard before continuing, “I want a piece of you with me. Always. No matter where I go or what happens. Something permanent. Something that can’t be taken away.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. I have to close my eyes, struggling to breathe past the surge of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. This wall of pure muscle, this dangerous, serious mountain of a man wants to wear my mark. Wants the world to know he’s mine just as much as I’m his.

I nod, not trusting my voice. I keep a set of tattoo equipment at home, so I grab it quickly and then return to the room.

My hands shake slightly as I set up the equipment, but my nerves steady as I fall into the familiar routine.

The buzz of the machine is almost soothing as I climb onto the bed beside him, careful of his injuries.

His eyes never leave my face as I lean over him.

The intensity of his gaze sends heat coursing through my veins, reminding me of that night at Blood and Ink when our positions were reversed.

I remember how it felt watching him mark me—the possessiveness in his eyes, the careful way he touched me, how each press of the needle felt like he was claiming a piece of me.

Is that what he’s feeling now? That same electric combination of vulnerability and desire?

The needle touches his skin and he inhales sharply.

I pause, checking his reaction, but he gives me a slight nod to continue.

As I work, tracing my design into his flesh, the air grows thicker and thicker with the unspoken tension that’s building between us.

Every small sound he makes, every slight shift of his body beneath mine, sends fresh sparks of arousal coursing through me.

His hand finds my thigh, and the touch is innocent enough. But combined with the intimacy of marking him, it’s almost more than I can handle. I have to force myself to focus on keeping my hands steady, but each pass of the needle and each shuddering breath makes it harder and harder to concentrate.

The design takes shape under my careful attention, and it’s hard not to take satisfaction in the knowledge that my mark will be permanently etched into his skin, a mirror to the one he gave me. A promise. A claim. A reminder that we belong to each other.

I wipe away a small bead of blood, letting my fingers linger on his skin. “Almost done.”

“Take your time.” His voice has dropped an octave, rough and dark in a way that makes me squirm as a fresh wave of wet heat pools between my legs. “I like having you on top of me like this.”

The buzz of the machine fills the silence as I add the final details. When I finish, I sit back to admire my work perfectly placed over his heart. The skin around it is red and raised, making the black ink stand out even more against his tanned chest.

His eyes drink in every detail. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

“Yeah, it is.” The words come out hoarse, betraying how affected I am by seeing my mark on him.

He inhales deeply, nostrils flaring, and a knowing smile spreads across his lips. “I can smell how wet you are, vicious.” His hand slides up my thigh. “Getting turned on marking me up?”

I bite my bottom lip, not trusting myself to answer out loud.

“Touch yourself.” It’s a command, not a request. “Let me taste you on your fingers.”

Heat floods through me as I slip my hand between my legs, letting out a soft gasp at how sensitive I am. When I pull my fingers back, they’re glistening.

Atlas captures my wrist, bringing my hand to his mouth. His tongue swirls around my fingers as he sucks them clean, and the sight makes my whole body throb with need. I can see the outline of his cock straining against the bedsheets now, hard and ready.

Before I can process what’s happening, his hand fists in my hair and yanks me down. His mouth crashes into mine, desperate and demanding, and all I can think about is him and me and this urgent need that I have to fucking satisfy.