Page 177 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

My hands work automatically, counting vials and bandages, but my mind catalogs the dangers until the medical kit clicks shut with the kind of certainty and finality that makes this process as soothing as it is satisfying.

No matter what’s coming, I know I’ll be ready.

Now that I have something worth protecting, I’ll paint the fucking streets red before I let anyone take it from me.

The storm is coming. Let it come. This time, I have more than just brothers at my back. I have a family. And I almost pity the poor bastards who try to break it apart.

Quinn appears in the doorway as I’m double-checking the weapons we’ll take to the meeting. One look at her, and I can’t help myself—I cross the room in three strides and crush my mouth to hers.

She makes a surprised sound against my lips but melts into it, her fingers curling into my shirt. When I finally break the kiss, her eyes are dark and questioning.

“Thank you,” I say, “for taking care of him.”

She shakes her head, a gorgeous shade of pink tinting her cheeks. “You did more than me. You’re the one who has to keep stitching him up every time he pops them.”

“That’s not what I mean.” My fingers find her chin, tilting her face up. “You gave him something to hold on to when Ambrose had him. Something worth surviving for.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by that fierce protectiveness that makes my cock hard and my chest ache at the same time. “You’re mine,” she says simply. “All of you. I protect what’s mine.”

Fuck. The possession in her voice hits me like a drug, spreading heat through my veins. I crash my mouth to hers again, backing her up against the wall. She gasps as I bite her bottom lip, and I swallow the sound, losing myself in the taste of her.

Her nails dig into my shoulders as I grind against her, and for a moment I consider saying fuck the meeting, fuck everything except burying myself inside her?—

“If you two are done trying to fuck through your clothes, we need to go.” Atlas’s voice cuts through the haze of desire in my head. He’s leaning in the doorway, cleaned up but still moving stiffly. Nico stands behind him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

Quinn breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“Maybe,” Atlas smirks. “But unlike some people, I had enough sense to get off this morning.”

I grunt, adjusting myself in my jeans. “Keep talking and I’ll pop the rest of your stitches.”

We head out to the bikes, the easy back and forth dying down as we focus on what’s coming.

The ride to the old corner store is tense, even though we all know the area like the backs of our hands.

We’re all watching for threats, for any sign that this might be a trap.

Quinn rides between us, protected on all sides—though at this point, I’m not sure if we’re protecting her or if she’s protecting us.

The thought settles something in my chest. Whatever Zoey and her new “Twisted Tyrants” have planned, they’re about to learn what happens when you fuck with what’s ours.

The old Quick-Stop comes into view up ahead, a crumbling fixture in the local community where you can get a tank of gas, a hot sandwich, a bottle of whiskey, and a dime bag of weed without any trouble.

Hopefully there isn’t any trouble waiting for us today.

Just in case, I’m already counting threats as we pull into the lot and cut our engines. There are fourteen bikes besides Zoey’s, spread out in a loose semi-circle. A show of force.

Stefan stands at Zoey’s right hand like her personal attack dog, but it’s the faces behind them that interest me more.

One by one, at least half the guys around them shift their weight, avoiding Nico’s eyes. A couple of them keep glancing at Atlas, guilt written all over their fucking faces. They might wear Twisted Tyrants patches now, but loyalty isn’t something you can steal with a coup.

“Well, well.” Zoey’s smile is predatory as she takes in the four of us. There’s something manic in her eyes now, a hunger that wasn’t there before. Power suits some people. With others, it twists them inside out until they’re unrecognizable. “The mighty have fallen far enough to answer my call.”

Quinn’s hand brushes mine, a silent warning to stay calm. Smart woman. She knows I’m calculating exactly how many of these fuckers I could take out before they had a chance to draw their weapons.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Nico’s voice could freeze hell. “I wanted to see how many people you had left to hide behind.”

Zoey’s smile falters. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“How many of my old club members jumped ship when they realized what kind of ‘leadership’ you were offering?”

The flash of rage in her eyes confirms it. She’s been losing people—good riders who know what a real MC is supposed to be. Not this dictatorship she’s created.

“They were weak.” Stefan speaks up, his voice hard. “Couldn’t handle the changes needed to make us stronger.”

“Changes like what?” Atlas growls. “Breaking legs when someone questions orders? Threatening families?” His lip curls. “Word gets around, you know. This city isn’t that fucking big.”

One of the guys flinches at that. Interesting. It seems like Zoey’s new management style isn’t sitting well with everyone.

“At least we still have a club.” Zoey’s fingers drum against her bike’s handlebars. “What do you have? A whore and some borrowed territory?”

Quinn starts forward, but I catch her wrist. Not here. Not yet. Although judging by the way a couple of Zoey’s men tense up, I’m not the only one who noticed their new leader just made a dangerous mistake.

“Watch yourself.” Nico cuts through the bullshit. “Now, did you want something? Or did you drag us here just to measure dicks?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see how far you’ve fallen.” Her smile turns cruel. “The mighty Princes of Carnage, reduced to this. It’s almost?—”

“Enough.” Nico’s voice cracks like a whip. “Either say what you came to say, or we’re done here.”

I watch Zoey’s face carefully, reading the micro-expressions. The flicker of uncertainty. The way her eyes dart to Stefan before she speaks. Behind her, some of our old brothers still won’t meet our eyes.

She’s hiding something. And whatever it is, it’s big enough to make her nervous, even with all her borrowed muscle flexing around her.

“We want the territory between Fifth and Market.” Zoey’s tone hardens as she finally gets down to business. “All of it. Non-negotiable.”

“Fuck no.” Quinn and Nico speak in perfect sync, and I almost smile.

Almost.

Zoey’s lips curl up, like she’s been waiting for this. She raises two fingers, and movement catches my eye as a shadow seemingly detaches itself from behind one of the bikes.

The silence stretches out for a few seconds, and I force myself to stay calm and ready for whatever is about to happen. Even the Tyrants seem to hold their breath, watching Quinn. They know exactly whose face is about to step into the light.

My hand finds Quinn’s lower back, steadying her. Warning her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Atlas shift his weight, ready to move even with all of his injuries. Nico has gone deadly still, the way he always does before the shit hits the fan.

We finally get a good look at the person walking up from the shadows, and everything goes sharp and cold.

Emmett. The fucking traitor who nearly got Quinn killed. The man who sold out his own club for a quick buck. The man who’ll die screaming if I have anything to say about it.

“We found this stray.” Zoey’s voice drips with smug satisfaction. “Poor thing needed a new home after burning all his bridges.”

Quinn goes stiff as a fucking board under my touch.

The anger and pain that flashes across her face makes me want to peel Emmett’s skin off strip by fucking strip.

I’ll take his hands first—the ones that gave information to Ambrose.

Then his tongue, for all the lies he told.

Then his eyes, so the last thing he sees is me coming for him.

“The Twisted Tyrants have graciously offered me protection.” Emmett’s voice wavers slightly as Quinn’s hand drops to her gun. Smart man, showing fear. He should be fucking terrified. “Since my previous… employment ended badly.”

Previous employment.

Like he didn’t betray the people who treated him like fucking family. Like he wasn’t indirectly responsible for Atlas being tortured. Like Quinn didn’t give him a home, a purpose, everything he had.

I’m already planning exactly how I’ll find him.

How I’ll make him suffer before he dies.

He thinks the Tyrants can protect him? I’ll stack their bodies like firewood to get to him.

I’ll paint the streets with their blood.

I’ll tear down every building in Detroit brick by fucking brick until I find where he sleeps.

Some people deserve more than death. They deserve to be unmade. To be torn apart so slowly they forget who they were before the pain started. To serve as an example of what happens when you betray family.

And I’m very, very good at unmaking people. And maybe it won’t be today, but by the time I’m done with Emmett, there won’t be enough left to identify the body.