Page 194 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

My words hang in the air as the others exchange glances around the table. The energy in the room has shifted, and I can feel the way their assessment of me has changed. I’m not the weak link they initially thought I was.

“Well,” Malcolm says, leaning back in his chair. “I believe we can consider Elliot’s votum successfully fulfilled.”

“Arturo, his wife, and his unborn heir have been eliminated,” Elliot confirms, still studying the severed hand like it’s a piece of fucking art. “Along with his entire operation.” His eyes flick to mine. “I consider it to be thoroughly fulfilled.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. Let him search for weakness. He won’t find any.

Imogen stretches, breaking the few seconds of silence that threatened to go on indefinitely. “I need a drink after all this. Anyone else?”

Cassandra nods. Although I’ve seen them snark at each other with their claws out, there’s something almost like respect in her expression as she glances over at Imogen. “I’m in.”

“I could use several,” Rafael agrees, rising from his chair. “Although I’m not sure Noctura’s open bar is the best place to go when I’m already struggling to keep my eyes open.”

“Speak for yourself,” Owen says. “Some of us can handle our liquor.”

Their banter continues as they all start to stand up and move toward the door, but I’m tracking Malcolm’s gaze.

He hasn’t looked away from me since I tossed that hand on the table, and there’s something calculating in his expression that makes my jaw clench.

Not fear—I stopped being afraid of men like him a long time ago.

But wariness. The kind of wariness I’d expect to feel if I spotted a rattlesnake in my path.

“A word, Quinn.” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the sounds of people leaving as he stands and moves around the table toward me.

My men immediately tense. I can feel the change in them, the way they shift their weight, ready to move. Ready to kill if they have to. Sometimes I forget how in sync we are until moments like this, when we’re all coiled like springs, waiting for the slightest excuse to unload on someone.

Malcolm stops too close, forcing me to look up to meet his eyes. “I may have misjudged you,” he says, keeping his voice low enough that only my men and I can hear. “You’re more capable than I initially assumed.”

“Most people who underestimate me only do it once.” For the first time all night, I feel completely relaxed. I’ve made it through the hardest part. Everything else is downhill from here.

And Malcolm? He might be dangerous as fuck—I’ll give him that much credit—but he’s also smart. Smart enough to know better than to overplay his hand right here in front of my men.

His lips curl into something that might be a smile on anyone else.

On him, it just looks predatory. “I can see why your… followers… are so devoted.” His gaze slides over Atlas, Killian, and Nico before returning to me.

“There aren’t many things in life more exciting than a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. ”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had blood on my hands. It won’t be the last. I don’t really give a damn who it excites or what anyone else thinks about me.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind about that.” He gives me an up and down look that’s fucking nauseating. “You might be exactly what the Syndicate needs.”

Nico steps closer, until he’s partially blocking Malcolm’s direct line of sight with me. A clear message that Malcolm reads easily enough, if the way his eyes narrow is any indication. The testosterone in the air is so thick I could choke on it.

For a moment, I can’t read his expression. I’m still sitting, so I’m at a disadvantage if shit hits the fan, but I don’t think it’s going to come to that. Not here. Not now.

Thankfully, Malcolm inclines his head and takes a half-step back. “Well, I think we’re done here. For now.”

I nod and we leave without another word, but there’s no mistaking the way my men surround me as we climb the stairs.

“Fucking bastard,” is all Nico says as we step out of the oppressively luxurious building.

Atlas grunts. “I was so fucking close to snapping his neck.”

I’m surprised Killian doesn’t have anything to say, but I realize what’s distracting him once we make it to the car.

He immediately climbs into the back seat to check on Princess—who is, of course, still in her carrier.

Right where we left her. It’s almost funny how the most dangerous man I know is going soft over a fucking cat.

“Is she okay?” I ask as we pile in. Because fine, maybe I’m going soft for the cat too. She is beautiful. I can’t deny that.

“Sleeping,” he grunts, but I catch the way his fingers slip through the carrier’s bars to stroke her fur.

Once we’re on the road, everyone seems to relax a little.

“That went better than expected,” Nico says as he drives us through the quiet, pre-dawn roads.

Atlas snorts from the back seat. “Yeah, except for the part where Malcolm was eye-fucking Quinn the whole time.”

I can’t stop myself from smiling. “He can look all he wants. He knows touching means losing body parts.”

“I still don’t fucking like it,” Killian mutters, and I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. There’s the possessive look I was expecting earlier, dark and hungry. And I’ll be damned if that look doesn’t send a rush of heat straight down to my core.

“They bought it though,” I say, redirecting us to the more pressing issue. I’m still not sure how we managed to pull it off without something going wrong. One wrong move, one slip in my expression, and we would’ve all been dead. “Hook, line, and sinker.”

“The hand was a nice touch,” Atlas admits. “Where did you get it anyway?”

“I called in a favor,” Killian shrugs nonchalantly, as if he borrowed a cup of sugar.

“Someone owed you their hand?” Atlas asks, chuckling even though this is the darkest fucking conversation I’ve heard in a while. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

The corners of Killian’s mouth twitch. “Probably a good idea.”

Nico grunts from the driver’s seat next to me. “Next time you call in a favor to take someone’s hand off, make it Malcolm’s.”

“It’s not just Malcolm we need to worry about,” I say. “Did you see how quickly they all turned? One severed hand and suddenly I’m worthy of their respect?”

“Because they’re a bunch of sick fucks,” Atlas says. “The fact that they think you murdered a pregnant woman in cold blood, and now they like you better for it? Sick.”

“Fucking animals,” Killian agrees, still petting Princess through the carrier bars.

Nico’s jaw clenches as he takes a sharp turn. “That’s probably what they want—for everyone to be as fucked up as they are. It’s a hell of a lot easier to control people when you can hang all the horrible shit they’ve done over their heads.”

I haven’t thought about it that way before, but he’s probably right. “Makes me wonder what other tasks they’ll expect me to handle now that they think I’m capable of anything.”

“We’ll deal with that when it comes,” Atlas says. “One clusterfuck at a time.”

I’m too tired to think about the next clusterfuck already. Instead, I twist in my seat to look at Killian. “Where exactly did that hand come from?”

I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it. My curiosity has gotten the best of me. I’m also wondering how deeply in debt someone would have to be in order to give up a whole fucking hand.

“Like I said,” he shrugs. “I called in a favor.”

When it’s obvious none of us are going to let him stop there, he huffs out a short breath.

“There’s a guy at Detroit Memorial who owed me after I helped him end a little disagreement he was having with some bookies.

” Killian scratches under Princess’s chin.

“He had access to the morgue. He found a hand that was the right size and right age. It’s the same source I used to get the bags of blood. ”

I can’t even pretend not to be impressed. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

“I have to.” His green eyes meet mine again. “Especially when it comes to protecting what’s mine.”

The weight of his words hits me right in the chest, but before I can respond, Atlas’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the air.

“What the fuck?” Nico mutters, slamming on the brakes so hard we all jerk forward.

I straighten in my seat and look out the windshield, following Nico’s gaze. Up ahead, flames and smoke color the sky like something straight out of hell.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Killian says.

“No,” I whisper, but there’s no denying what I’m seeing. My house—my father’s house—is on fire.