Page 200 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

I press my forehead against the cold tile. The guys are out there doing what needs to be done—checking exits, testing security, making this place safe. And I’m in here falling apart.

“Get your shit together,” I tell myself, but my voice breaks.

A thud against the wall makes me jump, followed by Atlas’s deep voice. “These goddamn cameras aren’t worth two shits.”

“Get your ass down from that ladder,” Nico says. “And let Killian take a look at those stitches.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt, asshole.”

“Fuck off. I’m fine.”

At least some things don’t change.

I stay under the spray until the water runs cold, trying to numb the ache in my chest, but it doesn’t work.

I wrap a towel around myself and head for the bedroom to find some clean clothes. The sound of Killian’s voice stops me in the hallway.

“Easy there, little killer,” he says softly. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you here. I promise.”

I peek around the doorframe and see Killian sitting cross-legged on the floor, setting up a litter box. The cat is investigating from under the bed, all huge eyes and careful steps.

“Look what I got you,” he says, pulling something from a bag. “This is all premium shit. No cheap food for you.”

“Come on out,” he coaxes. “Got some fancy food for you. Better than that cheap shit they were feeding you. Even got you one of those little mice filled with catnip.”

My heart clenches watching him. This is the man who can intimidate stone cold killers and torture other men without flinching. The man other gangs whisper about in fear.

The cat creeps closer to him, and Killian stays perfectly still. When it finally gets close enough to sniff his hand, his whole face softens.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Not so bad, right? Just you and me, figuring shit out.”

“And Quinn,” Atlas says from behind me, making me jump. “When she’s not spying.”

I turn to glare at him, but he just grins. The cat startles at his voice and darts back under the bed.

“For fuck’s sake,” Killian growls. “We were making progress.”

“Found some bowls in the kitchen,” Atlas adds, ignoring Killian. “Figured the little killer needed a proper setup.”

“Little killer?” I can’t help but smile, stepping into the room.

Killian shrugs, his eyes darkening as they track over my towel-clad body. “I saw her take down a moth earlier. She’s got potential.”

“Like owner, like cat,” Atlas says, but his eyes are on Killian’s face, something soft in his expression before he walks away.

Something in my chest loosens as I listen to their banter and watch Killian with this tiny, helpless creature. Even after everything we’ve lost, he’s still capable of this gentleness. And all three of them are still capable of surprising me.

“Why don’t you hate me?” The words spill out before I can stop them.

Killian looks up from the cat, his expression sharpening. “What?”

“I did to you what Ambrose just did to me.” My voice shakes. “I burned your club to the ground. I destroyed everything the three of you built. So why don’t you hate my fucking guts?”

“Do you want me to hate you?” Killian’s voice goes low and dangerous, and the cat skitters back under the bed.

“I want to understand.” I grip the towel tighter. “Everything I touch turns to shit. I got my own gang destroyed, got Atlas shot, got us tangled up with the Syndicate?—”

“Stop.” He rises in one fluid motion. “Is that really what you think? That you’re some kind of fucking curse?”

“Look around.” I gesture wildly. “Everything is gone. Just like your club. Just like?—”

“That’s not the same thing.” He crosses the room in two strides. “You didn’t destroy us. You freed us.”

“Bullshit.”

“What did we really have, anyway? A club that turned on us? Members who would rather follow Zoey than stay loyal?” His eyes burn into mine. “You showed us who our real enemies were.”

“When we had you captive,” Killian continues, backing me against the wall, “I wanted to break you. That’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done.”

My breath catches. We don’t talk about those days often.

“But I couldn’t.” His voice roughens. “Every time I pushed you, every time I heard you scream, something inside me…” He breaks off, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle jump.

“What?” I whisper.

“It fucking hurt.” He presses his forehead to mine. “And that’s never happened before. I’ve never cared before. Ever. Not with anyone. But hurting you? It was like cutting myself open.”

“Killian—”

“I’m a killer. A monster on the inside. I always have been. Ask anyone who thinks they know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” His laugh is harsh. “You’ve seen what I’ve done to the people who’ve crossed us.”

“I also just saw you setting up a cat bed and buying premium kitty food.”

His hands frame my face, rough and gentle at once. “Only for my family.”

The word hits me like a punch to the gut. Family. That’s what we’ve become.

“I could have killed you that first night we held you captive,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. “Things would’ve been simpler.”

“Yeah?” I lean into his touch. “When did you know you couldn’t?”

His thumb traces my bottom lip. “When you kneed me and head-butted me and spat in my face. When you told me over and over to go fuck myself. And I realized there was a part of me that still wanted to let you go.”

“But why?” My voice catches. “Why couldn’t you hurt me?”

Killian steps back suddenly. Before I can process it, he’s walking out of the room. My heart slams against my ribs—did I push too far? Did I say too much?

Almost in a daze, I turn to follow him, but he’s already back with something in his hand.

A tattoo kit.

I don’t recognize it, which means Imogen must’ve left it here along with all the other supplies she provided.

I frown, unsure of what the hell is about to happen. Killian has never wanted tattoos. He’s made that clear from day one. He’s said—from his own lips—that tattoos were pointless modifications, unnecessary marks that didn’t mean shit.

“What are you doing?” My voice comes out so quiet it’s barely above a whisper.

He sets the kit down carefully, like it’s something so precious or so dangerous that he’s almost scared to fuck with it.

“When I was a kid on the streets,” he says, his eyes locked on to that kit. “My mother’s marks were all over my body. My arms, my legs, my back… everywhere. I couldn’t get rid of them and couldn’t change them.”

I know what he means. The scars. The burn marks. The evidence of everything she did to him.

“I swore I’d never voluntarily mark my body.” His deep voice is so low and rumbling that I have to lean in to hear. “I swore I’d never let anyone leave their mark on me.”

“Killian—”

“But I want yours.” He finally meets my eyes. “I want your ring, like Nico and Atlas have. I want everyone to know that I belong to you and that you belong to me.”

My hands are shaking as I reach for the kit. “Are you sure about this?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

“But you hate tattoos.” I have to say it. I have to give him one last chance to back out. “You just said you’ve always hated them.”

“No.” He catches my wrist. “I just said I hated the idea of being marked. Of being owned.” His grip tightens. “But I’m already yours. I have been for a while now.”

Heat floods my chest. Through the doorway, I catch Atlas’s small smile before he backs away, giving us privacy.

“It’ll hurt,” I warn, but we both know that’s not what this is about.

“Good.” His eyes lock on mine. “I want to feel you marking me. I want to remember this moment every time I look at it.”

My towel is slipping as I reach for the tattoo gun, but I don’t care. The thought of tattooing him while I’m naked makes the moment even more intimate.

“Where?” I ask.

He taps his chest, right over his heart. The same place Atlas and Nico wear my ring.

“Do it,” he says without any hesitation in his tone. “Make me yours.”