Page 228 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

Everything is a haze of pain and medication. I have no idea what time it is or how many hours have passed, but I’ve faded in and out of consciousness so many times that I’m guessing I’ve been here for a while. A full day and night, maybe? Maybe longer—I just don’t fucking know.

I open my eyes at some point, and Killian is forcing me to eat something. His voice is low and firm, and he’s not taking any of my shit as he tells me I need to keep my strength up. There’s the taste of chicken broth on my tongue, warm and salty, before I black out again.

The next time I wake up, it’s Atlas next to me. His strong hands are gentle but supportive as he helps me stumble to the bathroom. My legs shake like a newborn colt’s, but his grip never wavers.

“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, just above a whisper as he puts me back in bed afterward. “You’re safe. Just go back to sleep, vicious.”

So I do. I sleep and sleep, tossing and turning as I fade in and out. My body feels detached from my fuzzy head, and I feel like I’m floating half the time, but it’s better than the pain I felt before.

The next time I become aware of my surroundings, Nico is murmuring to me in Italian as he wipes my forehead with a cool cloth.

The words don’t make it through my drug-addled brain, but his voice steadies me.

The familiar scent of him—warm and earthy with just the right amount of manly musk—keeps me grounded when everything else feels like it’s spinning.

I know I should hate feeling so fucking weak and helpless, but the drugs make it hard to hold on to anything. One minute I’m angry, the next I might be scared, like I’ve been running and running for days… but I only wake up with fleeting images left in my mind.

Sometimes I hear these men—my men—talking in low voices, their words cutting through the fog in bits and pieces.

There’s always at least one of them nearby, as if they think something might happen to me if they leave me alone for too long.

The heavy footsteps, the quiet creak of the chair beside my bed, the rough touch of calloused fingers checking my bandages—it all blends together, but it’s all soothing in a weird way.

Somewhere beneath all the meds and fog, there’s this nagging feeling that I should be doing something. That we’re all in danger, that we can’t just sit here hiding like a bunch of fucking cowards while our enemies are out there plotting god knows what.

But every time I try to focus on that thought, try to piece together what happened and what we need to do next, it slips away from me. My head feels like it’s full of cotton, and stringing two thoughts together is harder than trying to walk with these shaky-ass legs of mine.

I force my eyes open, trying to tell whoever is next to me that we need to move, that we need to do something. But my tongue feels thick in my mouth, and before I can get the words out, the darkness pulls me under again.

The next time my eyes flutter open, everything seems normal for a moment. There’s a tall figure standing over my bed—but when I focus on the face, my heart stops. It’s not one of my men.

It’s Ambrose.

I jolt up, ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest and side. The blanket tangles around my legs as I try to scramble back, looking for anything I can use as a weapon.

That’s when I see them.

My men are sprawled across the floor, completely lifeless.

Blood pools around their bodies, and I barely stifle a gasp when I realize their throats have been slashed wide open.

But it’s their faces that make bile rise in my throat—those twisted smiles carved into their skin, their lips sliced at the corners in that signature mutilation that marks all of Ambrose’s kills.

“No,” I choke out. “No, no, no.”

“Should I have woken you?” Ambrose’s voice is sickeningly soft, almost gentle.

“I did consider it. I thought you might want to watch.” His smile grows wider.

“Killian fought the hardest. Atlas tried to reach you, even with his throat cut. And Nico…” He sighs, like he’s savoring the memory. “Well, I hate that you missed it.”

Something inside me snaps. Fury burns through my veins, drowning out everything else. I grab the lamp from beside the bed, yanking its cord from the wall as I launch myself at him.

I don’t care if I die. I just need to hurt him. I need to make him suffer for what he did to my men.

The lamp swings toward his face, but he’s faster. White-hot pain explodes in my stomach as his knife sinks in deep. I look down, watching my own blood seep around the blade that’s buried to the hilt.

When I raise my eyes again, Ambrose is gone and Malcolm is standing in his place. His cold eyes are glinting with satisfaction as his fingers tighten on the knife handle.

“No—” I start to say, but the word turns into a scream as he jerks the blade upward. Pain rips through me, and I taste copper in my mouth. Blood drips from my lips, spattering down my chin and onto my neck.

But Malcolm’s smile is almost worse than the agonizing pain. “When are you going to understand?” He sighs and shakes his head. “You were never in control. It was always going to end like this for you when you started to think you could outsmart me.”

He jerks his chin toward the bodies on the floor. “And because they loved you—” His smile turns condescending, as if he’s teaching an important lesson to a misbehaving child. “It was always going to end like that for them.”

A sound tears from my throat—half sob, half scream. He yanks the knife out, and for half a second, I almost feel relief.

Then he drives it straight into my heart.

I jerk awake with a strangled gasp, my heart pounding as I thrash against something holding me down. Strong arms wrap around me, and I fight harder as sheer panic floods my system.

“Quinn. Quinn, stop! Vicious, it’s me.” Atlas’s deep voice cuts through the fear and the noise of my own thumping heart. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The nightmare clears enough for me to recognize him, and I go from fighting to clinging. My fingers dig into his shirt as I try to breathe, but the air won’t come. Each gasp is shallow and fast, my chest heaving as I press my face against him.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, one of his hands moving to cup the back of my head. “Nice and slow. That’s it.”

I focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest, trying to match my breathing to his. Gradually, the panic that I felt from losing him—from losing all three of them—starts to subside.

And then I realize something else. For the first time in what feels like forever, my head is clear—the pain meds must be wearing off.

Atlas’s other hand runs slowly up and down my back, keeping time with each inhale and exhale until I’m breathing normally on my own again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” My voice is hoarse, and I shake my head against his chest. “I really fucking don’t.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then his arms tighten around me. When he speaks again, his voice is full of the kind of emotion that makes my own heart clench for him. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

Of course he does. We all have our demons, our nightmares that wake us up screaming. And right now, with his body curved protectively around mine, I can tell he knows exactly what kind of horrors just played out in my head. Maybe not the specifics, but he understands the general theme.

Loss. Death. Watching the people you love die while you’re powerless to stop it.

I shudder, and his arms tighten even more.

“I dream about that night at Blood and Ink,” he says in a low voice.

“About being too slow and too fucking weak to stop Ambrose. In my dream, I can’t ever get there in time to save you.

All I can do is struggle and watch my brothers die trying to protect you.

The worst part is finding you later—” His voice catches. “Finding what’s left of you.”

I swallow hard as my fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I dream about it too. About how they shot you, took you from me… tortured you.” I wasn’t actually there when Atlas got shot, but my imagination has had no problem painting a vivid picture of that moment in my head.

The memory of my nightmare is still too fresh, but the words I’m saying out loud are even worse because those things actually happened.

“That nightmare came true. If something like that happens again, I can’t?—”

“Hey.” His hand slides to my chin, tilting my face up. “We made it through. The nightmare passed and we’re still here. We found our way back to each other.”

I nod, but the words don’t comfort me as much as they should. Because yeah, we beat Ambrose. We made it through that hellish week and the weeks that came after. We somehow survived one monster, but there are plenty more out there waiting to tear us apart.

“What’s been happening since that night at Noctura?” I shift a little, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my side scream. “How long have we been here?”

“About three days.” Atlas keeps one arm around me, steadying me as I move. “We’ve been lying low and staying quiet. So far, there’s been no sign that Malcolm or the rest of the fuckers from the Dark Lotus Syndicate have any idea where we ended up.”

“But how do you know that? Who’s keeping an eye on Malcolm if we’re here?”

“Kendrick. He’s been doing recon for us and keeping his ear to the ground.” Atlas’s lip curls. “Apparently the Dark Lotus members have their people searching our old stomping grounds on the opposite side of the city. I don’t think it’s occurred to anyone that we would’ve gone in this direction.”

I try to process everything at once, but I get stuck on the very first bit of intel he gave me. “And we’re sure it’s okay to trust Kendrick now?”

“What?” Atlas tilts his head, frowning.

“I said, do you think it’s smart to trust Kendrick?” I repeat, louder.

He grimaces, and his jaw clenches. “Right. Sorry. I can’t hear shit out of my left ear. The gunshot—when I ducked away from that guard’s gun—it fucked something up.”

“Jesus.” My stomach drops. “Atlas?—”

“It’s fine.” He cuts me off. “Killian says I might get some hearing back eventually. And if not?” He shrugs. “It’s a small price to pay for getting us out of there alive.”

“It’s not fine.” I reach up, touching his face near his damaged ear. “You lost your hearing because of me.”

“No. Because Malcolm and his psychotic fucking friends tried to kill you.” His voice is hard. “Don’t twist this into something you need to feel guilty about. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. He almost died. Again. First with Ambrose at Blood and Ink, and now with the Dark Lotus Syndicate. Both times trying to protect me.

Something inside me cracks open, raw emotion flooding through my system. Before I can think about it, I grab his face and crush my lips to his.

Atlas responds instantly, like he always does. Like we’re two halves of the same fucked up whole, moving in perfect sync. His hands slide into my hair as he kisses me back hard, matching every ounce of desperation I’m pouring into it.

I press closer, ignoring the pain in my side. I need this. Need him. Need to feel alive and whole and connected to someone who understands exactly how close we came to losing everything.

His tongue slides against mine as the kiss deepens, turning hungry and fierce.

There’s so much wrapped up in it—fear and relief and that bone-deep need that’s always simmering between us.

My fingers dig into his shoulders as his grip tightens, both of us holding on like we’re afraid the other might disappear.

He’s hard, and I can feel his thick cock straining against me as he pins my lower body with his hips. My hand slides down to palm him through the denim, and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends a rush of wet heat straight through me.

I shift, trying to get even closer, but pain shoots through my side as the stitches pull. I can’t help the hiss that escapes me even though that’s the last noise I should be making right now.

Atlas breaks the kiss immediately and pulls back. “Quinn?—”

“Don’t you dare stop.” I tighten my grip on him.

“You’re hurt.” His voice is rough, and I can tell he’s torn between desire and concern. “Your stitches…”

“If I remember correctly,” I cut him off, “you were begging me to fuck you after Ambrose tortured you half to death. So don’t give me that shit now.”

His eyes darken at the memory. “That was different.”

“Like hell it was.” I stroke him again, feeling him throb under my touch. “I need this. I need you. Now.”

For a moment, he just looks at me with the conflicting emotions written all over his face. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his lips. He reaches up, tucking my hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness.

“I love you, vicious.” The words rumble from deep in his chest.

My heart clenches. “Then fuck me like you love me.”

Something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes. His expression shifts, and when his mouth crashes back to mine, it’s with an intensity that takes my breath away.