Page 199 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

The drive to my house feels like a funeral procession. My throat feels tighter with each block we pass until finally we turn onto my street. The firefighters are gone, leaving behind only the wet, charred husk of what used to be my home.

“Fuck,” I whisper, the word scraping raw from my throat. I’m out of the car before it fully stops, my boots crunching over broken glass and debris as I approach what remains of my front door.

“Quinn, wait,” Killian calls after me, but I can’t wait. I have to see.

The awful smell of smoke still hangs in the air, making my eyes water, even though I’m too fucking numb to cry real tears right now. My chest feels empty as I stare at the blackened walls, the collapsed roof, the complete destruction of everything I owned.

“His watch,” I choke out, remembering one of the few personal belongings of his that I still have. Had. “It was in my bedroom drawer. And the photos… all those pictures…”

“Mia cara,” Nico’s voice is gentle as he reaches for me, but I step away.

My fingers drift unconsciously to my shoulder where my tattoo used to be, the one he gave me, but even that’s gone now—burned away by the Syndicate’s brands. “I have nothing left of him. Not one fucking thing.”

“You have his strength,” Atlas says firmly. “And his leadership. Those aren’t things Ambrose can burn.”

“Some leader I turned out to be.” I kick a piece of charred wood, sending it skittering across what used to be my living room floor. “My gang’s disbanded, my home’s destroyed, and I’m in debt to people who would rather see me dead.”

Killian’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. “You’re still breathing. You’re still fighting. That’s what matters.”

“Quinn.” Atlas comes up next to me, the concern for me as evident in his tone as it is on his face. “We should go. Standing here won’t change anything.”

He’s right. There’s nothing left here for me. For us.

“We need supplies,” I sigh, feeling like a hollowed-out shell. “Clothes. Toiletries. The basics.”

“We should split up,” Nico offers. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Like hell.” I spin around to face him. “Ambrose is still out there somewhere. He’s just waiting for us to fuck up so he can pick us off one at a time. No, we stay together.”

All three men look around as if they’re half-expecting Ambrose to pop out of the hedges surrounding what used to be my back yard.

“You’re right,” Nico says, already moving to guide me back to the car. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“None of us are,” I lean over to give him a quick kiss. “Just one more reason to stick together.”

“You look like shit,” Killian tells Atlas as we pile back into the car. It’s harsh but true, and it’s obvious that Atlas has been favoring his left side. “You should’ve stayed in the car.”

“Fuck that.” Atlas clenches his jaw. “We have shit to do and people to kill. I’m not gonna sit back while you and Nico do all the heavy lifting.”

I can’t help but smile to myself. In spite of everything that’s going on, my men still have a pretty clear idea of what we need to do—keep me safe and kill our enemies.

Simple. Clear. Uncomplicated.

We hit the stores as they open. None of us have slept yet, but that’s nothing new. My head is pounding, and every muscle in my body is aching from the night’s bullshit.

Together, we move from store to store, department to department, grabbing clothes, toiletries, and food. The entire time, we’re all jumping at shadows and looking back over our shoulders, ready for anything or anyone who might come after us.

“You need better shirts than these,” Killian says, frowning at the tank tops I’ve just tossed into our cart. “You can’t run a proper op looking like you’ve just rolled out of bed.”

“I’m not running ops anymore,” I remind him. “I don’t have a gang, remember?”

“That’s just a temporary setback.” Atlas’s voice is firm behind me.

I’m going through motions and grabbing whatever looks useful, but my mind is stuck on the burned out shells of my house and the tattoo parlor. Fuck, how many people have I let down over the past few hours?

“Hey.” Atlas catches my arm as I start grabbing random shirts off a rack. “You just got three of the same thing.”

I look down. He’s right. “Shit.”

He starts sorting through the racks, picking out practical shit we can wear. “Let me handle this part.”

My phone buzzes, and everyone tenses. Our hands move to weapons, a reflex after too many calls saying someone is either dead or about to be.

“It’s Imogen,” I say, checking the screen. The guys relax, but not much. She might seem like one of the more trustworthy members of the Syndicate, but she’s still one of them.

We confirm the address and a few more details, then head downtown to the luxuriously modern high rise. The building is all glass and steel that reaches up into the sky. Imogen is waiting in the lobby, looking bored and annoyed but expensive as hell in a fitted black dress.

“Took you long enough,” she says, eyeing our shopping bags. “Follow me.”

The private elevator has got a glass wall showing Detroit sprawling below us. Above us, there are mirrors on the ceiling. Nico positions himself between me and Imogen.

I really don’t think she’s a threat, but I’m not gonna complain about the extra bit of protection.

“The penthouse has been secured,” she says, punching in a code. “I’ve added cameras, motion sensors, and reinforced the doors. Nobody gets in without you knowing.”

“Are there any weapons here?” Killian asks, holding the cat carrier.

“There’s a cache behind the living room wall panel.

” She rattles off the combination to the wall safe and looks up at our reflection in the mirrored ceiling.

“I’ve left you some handguns, rifles, and enough ammo to start a small war.

There’s a panic room too, with a hidden entrance in the master closet. ”

“Who else knows about these security measures?” Nico asks.

“Just the other Syndicate members. And now you.” Imogen arches a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“Yeah. Too many people know our escape routes.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, honey.”

The elevator keeps climbing. I hate that we have to be here, that we have to do any of this. We should all be curled up in bed right now—in my bed, naked, enjoying each other’s bodies. Instead, we’re taking charity from someone I barely know and definitely don’t trust.

“The building has private security,” Imogen continues. “They’ve been informed you’re VIP guests. No questions asked, and no one else gets up here without clearance.”

“Sounds like a fucking cage,” Atlas mutters.

“A gilded one,” Imogen agrees. “But it’s the safest cage in Detroit right now.”

The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. It’s bright and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, and tasteful but muted art pieces.

“The kitchen is fully stocked,” Imogen says, walking us through.

“I normally keep a chef on call for high rollers, but I wouldn’t advise bringing anyone up here unless you know them well enough to trust them with your lives.

The bedrooms are down that hall, and the master suite is through there.

” She hands me a set of keys. “These are the only copies I have. Don’t lose them. ”

“Who comes to clean?” Killian asks, already checking sight lines and exits.

“Nobody without your approval first.” Imogen watches him case the place. “Smart man. Every room in here is also effectively soundproof, so no need to worry about disturbing each other.” Her gaze slides over the four of us. “Or whatever arrangement you all have.”

I take the keys and start to thank her, but she puts a finger up, interrupting me.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Imogen’s smile turns sharp. “Remember what I said earlier. The Syndicate’s protection only lasts as long as you stay loyal. Cross us, and there’s nowhere you can hide. Not even here.”

She turns on her heel and walks out while the guys immediately start checking every room, every closet, every possible hiding place.

I stand at the windows, staring out at my city. Somewhere out there, Ambrose is planning his next move. And we’re stuck up here in our expensive new prison, playing by the Syndicate’s rules.

“I need a shower,” I announce to nobody in particular, then turn and walk through the master suite to one of the biggest bathrooms I’ve ever seen.

There’s a walk-in shower that has enough room for all four of us at the same time, and a separate tub that’s on a raised platform with a breathtaking view of the entire city below.

The shower itself is fancy as hell, with multiple heads and jets and settings I don’t bother trying to figure out right now. I just turn it as hot as it’ll go and step under the spray. The water feels good beating against my skin, but it can’t wash away the shit storm in my head.

Just outside the bathroom, I hear Atlas and Nico arguing about security placement.

“That camera angle has a blind spot,” Atlas says.

“Then we’ll add another one,” Nico snaps. “We’re not taking any fucking chances in this place. No one gets in. No one gets near her.”

The independent part of me wants to call out to them and let them know—in no uncertain terms—that I don’t need a babysitter or fifteen fucking security cameras pointed at me twenty-four-seven.

But honestly?

I don’t hate how protective they are. And I’m not so blinded by pride to realize I’m not in a place to turn down the help at the moment.

I close my eyes and surrender myself to the water for another minute or two. In my mind’s eye, I can’t stop picturing my dad’s face. I know he’d be relieved that I’m still alive, but I can’t help but think he’d be more than a little disappointed at how everything has turned out.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I fucked it all up, Dad.”

“Quinn?” Killian’s voice through the door. “You good in there?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough with emotion, like I’ve been gargling with gravel. “I’m… I’m fine.”

“Liar,” he says, but he doesn’t push it.