Page 189 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I wake slowly, and my body aches in the best fucking way, reminding me of last night—of being passed between my men like a toy they couldn’t get enough of. The memory sends a shiver through me, and I stretch carefully, appreciative of the pleasant burn in my muscles.

Nico is already awake. His mismatched eyes lock with mine, and something in my chest tightens at the intensity of his gaze. Atlas and Killian are still passed out on either side of us, their breathing deep and even.

“Good morning, wife. Sei così bella,” Nico murmurs, his voice rough with sleep as he reaches out to brush my hair back from my face.

My heart skips. I’m not sure what that last part in Italian meant, but even after everything we’ve been through, hearing him call me ‘wife’ still affects me.

“Good morning, husband,” I whisper back, the word feeling weighted with meaning I can’t quite express.

His fingers trace down my jaw, leaving fire in their wake. “You know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

“That I was a threat?” I breathe, remembering how we started—enemies who would’ve happily killed each other if given half a chance.

He shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “That you were dangerous. But not the way I expected.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “I knew you’d fuck up everything I thought I had figured out.”

“And did I?”

“Completely.” His eyes burn with emotion as they hold mine. “And I wouldn’t change a fucking thing.”

Something deeper wells up inside me—three words that want to spill out. But they stick in my throat. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I swallow them back down, settling for pressing closer to him instead.

He kisses me, slow and deep, his fingers trailing down my spine. When he pulls back, there’s understanding in his eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m holding back.

Just knowing that he understands me—that we understand each other—is enough for now though. And it’s enough to make me close my eyes and drift off again in his strong, safe arms.

The smell of coffee pulls me from bed eventually, and I follow it downstairs to find Nico at the stove, wearing nothing but low-slung sweats. He’s got eggs going in one pan and bacon in another, and the smell is enough to make my stomach rumble appreciatively.

“It’s been a while since I’ve caught you cooking, husband,” I tease, stealing his coffee mug and taking a sip. He shoots me a look that’s half-annoyance, half-amusement.

“Someone had to get breakfast started,” he says. “These two would live on protein shakes and takeout if I let them.”

As if summoned, Atlas appears in the doorway, looking rough but better than he has since we got him back. “Fuck you, I cook sometimes,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it.

“Heating up canned soup doesn’t count as cooking, brother,” Killian says, materializing behind him like a ghost. He steps around Atlas, heading straight for the coffee maker.

“Neither does ordering in every night,” Atlas shoots back.

I hop up on the counter, watching them move around each other with long-practiced ease. Even with the threats hanging over us, something settles in my chest at the sight.

“Pass me a plate,” Nico says, and I grab one from the cabinet behind me, handing it to him. He loads it with food, then hands it back. “Eat. You need your strength.”

“Yes, sir,” I say with a smirk, but I dig in anyway. The food is actually good—really good. Atlas steals a piece of bacon off my plate and I stab at his hand with my fork, missing by inches.

“Get your own, asshole.”

He grins, unrepentant. “Tastes better stolen.”

Despite barely sleeping, my mind feels sharp and focused. Maybe it’s the coffee starting to do its job, or maybe it’s just having all three of them here, whole and safe. Whatever it is, I can feel my thoughts clicking into place.

We’ve got a situation to figure out, and failure isn’t an option.

A few minutes later, and we’re all sitting around the table feasting on the breakfast Nico has made for us. He has his laptop pulled up next to him and the other two guys are scrolling through their phones as we discuss our strategy for tonight.

“This is it.” Nico spins his laptop around, showing a blueprint of a luxury high-rise downtown.

My stomach clenches as I lean in closer, scanning the layout.

Knowing this is where Arturo is keeping his pregnant wife makes everything feel more urgent, more real than it did before.

Then, we were just discussing these people in an abstract way.

Now we’re making plans that’ll bring us face to face with the pregnant woman I’m supposed to kill.

Atlas leans across and points to the northeast corner. “Penthouse suite. Elliot’s intel says she barely leaves, but that’s probably safest for her, considering her husband’s line of work.”

“How far along is she?” I ask, even though I really don’t want to hear the answer. Killian is already scrolling through something on his phone, and he grimaces when he looks back over at me.

“Six months,” he says flatly. “Found her social media. Celine Vargas. Twenty-four.” He turns the phone so I can see her profile picture. She’s stunning, with long dark hair and a radiant smile. And of course her hands are cradling her belly. Fuck.

“Security?” Nico asks, all business. But I catch the way his jaw tightens as he looks at the photo.

Atlas pulls up satellite imagery on his phone. “Two guards posted at the entrance with rotating shifts. The building has its own security too—cameras and key card access, mostly. But the real protection is up top with her. Four of Arturo’s men, at a minimum.”

I trace the fire escape route with my finger. “And here?”

“Monitored,” Killian says. “But everything can be compromised.”

We spend the next hour mapping entry points, security rotations, and camera blind spots.

Everyone at this table brings a different kind of expertise—Nico’s strategic mind, Atlas’s knowledge of security systems, Killian’s understanding of how to break them.

Then there’s my ability to slip by prying eyes in a way that three hulking, dangerous looking men could never do.

But underneath all the tactical planning, I can feel the weight of what we’re really doing—finding a way to save an innocent woman without getting ourselves killed in the process.

“Here,” Atlas says suddenly, pointing to a maintenance access panel. “If we time it right…”

I meet his eyes, seeing the same determination there that I feel burning in my chest. We might be criminals, might have blood on our hands, but there are still lines we won’t cross.

Nico’s hand settles on my lower back, steadying me. “It’s risky,” he says quietly. It doesn’t seem like he’s trying to talk me out of it though. He’s just stating facts.

“Everything worth doing is,” I reply, leaning into his touch.

Killian looks up from his phone. “I can get what we need. Give me two hours.”

I nod, knowing better than to ask what exactly he’s planning to acquire. Plausible deniability is the name of this game, but it won’t help us much with the Syndicate if we fuck this up.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Atlas adds, already typing something on his phone. “I know some people who can help. For a price.”

The plan starts taking shape. It’s fucking insane, and it might get us all killed, but it’s the only option we’ve got.

I look at each of my men in turn, these dangerous, beautiful men who are willing to risk everything to help me do the right thing. My chest aches with everything I can’t say.

“Tonight then,” I say instead, and they all nod. None of us mention the obvious—that if this goes wrong, the Dark Lotus Syndicate will make us wish we’d died trying.

My phone’s ring cuts through the comfortable silence like a fucking knife. My heart stutters when I see the unknown number, instinct screaming that this isn’t good news. No one calls from a burner with good fucking news.

“Yeah?” I keep my voice steady as I answer, but my fingers tighten around the phone until my knuckles go white.

“Hello, Quinn.” Ambrose’s smug fucking voice turns my stomach. “Miss me?”

My whole body goes cold. Around the table, my men’s heads snap up at whatever expression crosses my face. Their bodies tense in that predictable, all-too-familiar way that seems to come so easily for us. Especially when there’s violence on the way.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Now, is that any way to speak to an old friend? Especially after everything we’ve been through together?”

This motherfucker has a lot of damn nerve. My free hand curls into a fist, nails biting into my palm. The pain helps me focus, helps me push back the red haze of rage threatening to cloud my judgment. I need to be smart here. Need to be in control.

“We’re not friends,” I say, each word precise and cold. “We were never fucking friends.”

“Maybe you’re right. I guess we aren’t friends.

” Ambrose’s dark chuckle crawls down my spine.

“That’ll make this next part easier. I told you I wanted revenge, didn’t I?

” He pauses for a split-second, but continues without waiting for me to answer.

“See, the problem with someone like you, Quinn, is that you’ve got so many weak points. So many vulnerabilities.”

My jaw clenches as he pauses again. I don’t want to admit that I’m terrified of where this is going. I won’t be terrified when I see him again though. I’ll be ready to fight. Ready to get some goddamn revenge of my own.

“Atlas was just the beginning. Such a strong man, wasn’t he? So determined not to scream.” His voice drops lower. “Until he did.”

Atlas’s face hardens, but I can see the shadow that passes through his eyes at the memory. Nico’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to anchor me. Killian has gone completely still beside me, the kind of stillness that precedes violence.