Page 222 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

Malcolm holds the knife out to Elliot, handle first. “Since she betrayed your votum directly, you should have the first blow.”

Elliot takes the blade with the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen cross his face.

It’s completely at odds with the look of pure hatred in his eyes as he walks toward me.

This isn’t just about the votum anymore.

This is about me making him look weak in front of the Syndicate.

It’s about a pregnant woman escaping his reach because I chose mercy over murder.

I force myself to meet his hateful stare, refusing to show fear even though my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. “I knew giving you that severed hand would be good enough to fool you. I guess I wasn’t counting on anyone else calling my bluff.”

His expression twists from anger and hatred to pure rage. The blade flashes in the light, and then pain explodes through my left side as he drives the knife in just below my ribs. He puts his whole weight behind it, and I can feel the blade slice through muscle and scrape against bone.

I try to bite back my cry of pain, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth might crack.

But then Elliot twists the knife, grinding it against my ribs, and I can’t hold it in anymore.

The sound that tears from my throat is raw and primal, more like a wounded animal than any noise a human should ever have to make.

Through the haze of my own excruciating pain, I can vaguely hear the sounds of grunts and heavy breaths as my men strain against their captors. The brief sounds of scuffling seem like they’re miles away, only to fade away as quickly as they started with a few bursts of cursing.

Elliot yanks the knife out, and fresh pain rips through me. Warm blood immediately starts soaking through my shirt, running down my side in sticky rivulets. My pulse is racing, sending more blood pumping from the wound with each beat.

This is how I’m going to die. One stab at a time, in front of the men I love, all because I couldn’t bring myself to kill a pregnant woman. And the worst part is that I’d make the same choice all over again.

Malcolm hands the bloody knife to Imogen next. Her expression doesn’t change at all as she takes it from him, and she keeps that same perfect mask of neutrality in place as she approaches me. Her heels click against the concrete floor, each step measured and deliberate.

My side is on fire where Elliot stabbed me, and my shirt is already soaked through with blood. I try to focus on Imogen’s face as she steps close—too close, like this is intimate somehow—but my vision keeps trying to blur at the edges.

She raises the knife, and I brace myself for more searing pain.

But when the blade slides into my upper chest, just below my collarbone, something is different.

The pain is there, sharp and immediate, but it’s not the bone-deep, grinding agony that Elliot inflicted.

She’s barely pushed the blade in at all.

I meet her eyes, searching for some kind of meaning through the haze of pain that’s radiating through my chest. Her expression doesn’t give anything away, but there’s something in the way she’s staring back at me—something I might be able to catch if my head wasn’t starting to swim from the steady loss of blood.

A fresh burst of pain shoots through me as she withdraws the blade, and I can’t help the grunt that escapes my throat.

My legs try to give out, and I sag against the chains holding me up.

The manacles bite into my wrists as they take my full weight, but that sting is hardly noticeable compared to everything else I’m feeling.

Through the fog, I hear one of my men make a sound like he’s being gutted by having to watch me suffer like this. Probably Atlas—he’s always been the one who feels everything the deepest, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

Malcolm passes the knife to Owen with a pleased smile, like he’s hosting a particularly entertaining dinner party. Or maybe that’s just how I’m imagining him, with my vision swimming in and out of focus. Even Owen’s heavy footsteps are starting to echo strangely in my head.

A groan slips past my lips as my head lolls forward. The blood loss is really starting to hit me now, making everything feel distant and hazy. The chains are the only thing holding me upright now that my legs have completely given out.

Owen comes to a stop in front of me, his gray eyes shadowed and impossible to read.

He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath on my face as he raises the knife, and my pulse spikes. I don’t know if he’s searching for something in my expression, or if he just wants to watch the pain in my eyes when he drives the blade in—but either way, it’s a bad fucking move.

I gather every ounce of strength I have left, everything that makes me my father’s daughter, that makes me tough enough to lead a gang in my own right.

Everything that makes me the woman that three dangerous men choose to love.

Moving like lightning, I slam my forehead into Owen’s face with everything I’ve got.