Page 185 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

My stomach twists into knots as I stare at Elliot. Fucker. There’s no mistaking the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he delivers my assignment.

“You want me to murder a pregnant woman?” And yeah, there should be no mistaking the disgust in my voice.

I’m the only person in the room who has questioned his orders, but I don’t fucking care.

“Is that how you’ve gotten ahead in life?

By killing innocent people who have nothing to do with your fucked-up power plays? ”

“She chose her path,” he shrugs as if we’re talking about the goddamn weather. “Spread her legs for Arturo, let him put a baby in her. That makes her fair game.”

“A baby,” I repeat, shaking my head because I’m apparently the only person at this table who can’t believe how crazy that sounds. “You’re talking about murdering an unborn child like it’s nothing more than crushing a fucking bug.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, looking more amused than offended. “Arturo needs to learn, and it’ll serve as a good lesson to my other enemies as well. When you go to war with me, everything you love burns.”

“There’s no reason why a pregnant woman should be a fucking casualty in your war,” I spit out, my hands curling into fists under the table.

“Just another body for you to step over while you climb your way to the top of whatever shit-heap you’re after.

How many other women and children have you murdered, Elliot?

Do you keep count? Is there some kind of two-for-one bonus when the woman is pregnant? ”

Rafael, the one with the charming smile that I don’t buy for a fucking second, chuckles. “You act like you’ve never had blood on your hands, Quinn. We all know better.”

“There’s a difference between defending yourself and targeting innocents,” I snap back. “But I guess that distinction is too complex for someone who treats human trafficking like a fucking business model.”

Elliot’s expression hardens, the smugness vanishing as he holds my gaze.

He shoves back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor like nails on a chalkboard.

“That’s the only way to get ahead in this world, sweetheart.

The strong survive by crushing everyone else under their boots.

” He stalks around the table toward me, each step measured and predatory.

“Maybe you’re too soft for the Syndicate. Too weak to do what needs to be done.”

His gaze flicks to my men standing behind me, lingering on Atlas’s still-healing form. “Although I suppose you’ve proven you know how to use others to do your dirty work. Hide behind your guard dogs while pretending to have teeth of your own.”

“Back the fuck up,” Killian growls, and I can feel the lethal energy radiating from him. “Before you learn exactly how sharp her teeth are.”

“Enough,” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the tension, but just barely.

His dark eyes bore into mine, but I can’t read the emotion behind them.

Is he silently judging my reluctance or trying to protect me from Elliot’s growing anger?

“The terms of membership are clear, Quinn. When a member calls in their votum, we all must support their cause. No exceptions. No questions asked.”

He tilts his head, shadows playing across his angular features. “You understood this when you used your own votum, did you not?”

“That was different,” I argue, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.

“Was it?” Cassandra cuts in. “Because from where I’m sitting, you were perfectly happy to use our power when it served your needs. But now that someone else has made the same call, you’re suddenly growing a conscience?”

Imogen Brooks leans forward. “The rules aren’t á la carte, darling.” Her voice is low, almost conspiratorial—as if she’s imparting some kind of secret wisdom that I’ve failed to understand. “You don’t get to pick and choose which ones to follow.”

“I’m well aware,” I say through gritted teeth. “I just didn’t realize we were all supposed to check our humanity at the door.”

I can feel my men tensing behind me, ready for violence. I know they’d have my back no matter what happens, but I also know we’ll lose if it comes to blood and bullets.

No fucking way am I going to risk getting us all killed. Not here. Not like this.

My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, but I force myself to nod. “I never said I wouldn’t do it,” I grit out. “So you can back the fuck up and stop questioning my commitment.”

“Quinn—” Imogen starts to say something else, but I don’t have the fucking patience to listen anymore.

“Don’t,” I cut her off, not taking my eyes off Elliot. “I understand the rules perfectly well. I’ll play my part in your little vendetta, Elliot. Just remember something.” I lean forward, lowering my voice to barely above a whisper. “Everything comes full circle eventually. Every debt gets paid.”

He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Is that a threat, little girl?”

“No,” I say softly, thinking back to my father’s lessons about karma and consequences.

“Just an observation about how things tend to work in our world. The blood always comes back around, doesn’t it?

” I straighten up, squaring my shoulders.

“Now, do you want to keep measuring dicks, or can we discuss the actual plan?”

“Such fire,” Malcolm murmurs, something like appreciation in his tone. “I do hope you survive long enough for us to see what you become.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Elliot hasn’t backed down yet, and apparently wants to get one more dig in. “Taking out a target isn’t like fucking your way through a motorcycle club. Some of us actually have to get our hands dirty.”

The rage that fills me is instant and white-hot. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, my palms flat against the polished wood. “You want to test that theory?” My voice comes out low and deadly. “Because I’ve got no problem showing you exactly how dirty my hands can get.”

“Quinn.” Nico’s voice carries a warning, but I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

“I’ve killed before,” I continue, still without ever breaking away from Elliot’s gaze. “And unlike you, I didn’t need to target someone defenseless to prove I’m tough. So watch your fucking mouth before I decide to demonstrate.”

Owen Callahan, the rugged smuggler with his man-bun and calculating eyes, lets out a low whistle. “Our new girl’s got teeth after all.”

“And I know how to fucking use them,” I snap back, looking around the table at each one of them in turn until I make it back to Elliot. “Now, let’s get back to business.”

Malcolm clears his throat, commanding attention without raising his voice. “Tomorrow night,” he says, sliding a folder across the table. “Everyone moves on their assignments at exactly twenty-three hundred hours.”

“Why the rush?” Imogen asks, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against her glass. “Surely we need more time to?—”

“Arturo leaves Detroit in thirty-six hours,” Elliot cuts in. “This is our window. Each of you has your role. Rafael will draw him out with the promise of a deal. Cassandra’s people will take out his security detail. Owen handles transport. The rest of you know your parts.”

My stomach churns as I think about my “part” in all this. A pregnant woman. An unborn child. But I keep my face neutral as Malcolm continues outlining the timeline.

“Synchronized attacks,” he explains. “No room for error. No time for second thoughts.” His gaze lingers on me at those last words.

When the meeting finally ends, I push back from the table, my legs steadier than I expected. My men fall into position around me, creating a wall of muscle at my back. I take a moment to study the faces around me, trying to read beneath their careful masks.

Cassandra’s beauty holds an edge as she gathers her papers with precise movements. Imogen’s charm seems calculated, every gesture measured as she exchanges whispers with Rafael, whose easy smile never quite reaches his eyes.

Owen, with his man-bun and rugged features, watches everyone with the wariness of a career criminal who’s survived by never letting his guard down.

He catches me looking and gives me a slight nod—not friendly, exactly, but acknowledging.

Maybe he respects that I stood up to Elliot.

Or maybe he’s just marking me as someone to watch.

Elliot lingers at the table, his scarred face twisted in what might be a smile or a snarl. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl—not with lust or even hatred, but with the clinical interest of someone imagining how I’ll look when I break. When this assignment either hardens me or destroys me.

Malcolm, though, is the hardest to read. His expression gives away nothing as he watches the others file out, like a king surveying his court. Or maybe a puppet master examining his dolls. He meets my gaze for a moment, and I swear I see something like approval there. It makes me feel sick.

“Quite a crew,” Atlas murmurs behind me. His voice is tight despite his attempts to hide it. I know the pain meds and antibiotics have helped his recovery a lot, but there’s still a long way to go before he’s back to good.

“Yeah,” I breathe back. “Real fucking cream of the crop.”

The difference between this group and my men is as stark as night and day. With the Princes, there’s trust and loyalty. A bond that’s been forged over years of having each other’s backs. With my Enigma crew, there’s a sense of family—a family we’ve all chosen to be a part of.

But here? Every person watches the others like they’re calculating odds, measuring threats.

They work together because it benefits them, but there’s no trust. No loyalty beyond what their rules demand.

It’s all politics and power plays, a bunch of predators circling each other, waiting to see who shows weakness first.