Page 245 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

“My father owned another building.” I cross my arms, ready to dig in and turn this into a full-blown negotiation if I need to.

“He used it sometimes for business. It needs work, but with the right resources, I could turn it into something.” I meet his gaze.

“Unless you’d prefer your wife to sit around in this big house with nothing to occupy her time? ”

That gets a genuine laugh out of him, although it still sets my teeth on edge.

“Hardly. There probably isn’t anyone in Detroit who is more dangerous than my sweet wife with too much time on her hands.

Although I must admit, I’m surprised.” He steps closer, and it takes everything I have not to back away.

“I would have thought you’d want to distance yourself from your old life. Maybe start fresh?”

“This is me starting fresh.” It isn’t a complete lie. I’d be getting a taste of my old life, but in a completely new way. “New location, new leadership structure. But keeping the parts that worked.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he studies me. Several tense seconds pass, and I can see him weighing the decision. He’s smart enough to know I’m playing some kind of angle, but too arrogant to admit he’d probably feel safer keeping me here under house arrest.

I’m counting on that arrogance to get me through this conversation.

Finally, he speaks. “You understand that if you try to run, I’ll hunt you down.” His voice is soft, almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “I did it once, and I can do it again. And next time, I won’t be so merciful.”

There’s nothing subtle about the threat. We both know he’s not just talking about me. He’s talking about the mercy he’s shown my men too. There’s zero doubt about what he’ll do to them if I step out of line.

“I understand.” And I do. I’ve seen what Malcolm is capable of on his own, and what the Dark Lotus Syndicate can do when they work together.

I’d rather not go up against them again until the odds are closer to being even. And I’m honestly not sure that will ever happen.

“Alright. Then I’ll allow it.” He starts to nod, then holds up one hand. “If you give me another kiss.”

My stomach lurches, but I mirror his nod. What’s one more violation after everything I’ve been through?

I step closer and tilt my face up to his. His hand cups the back of my neck and his long fingers tangle in my hair. There’s nothing gentle about his touch. Everything is about possessing and claiming with him. It’s about keeping score.

When his mouth crashes down on mine, it’s somehow even worse than before. His tongue forces its way between my lips, prodding and insistent. I want to gag, or to bite down. Or maybe knee him in the balls and run.

Instead, I stand there and take it, letting him stake his claim all over again.

He finally pulls back, grinning and triumphant. “You’ll learn to love it.” He reaches out with his thumb to wipe a trace of saliva from the corner of my mouth. “You might even start to crave it.”

My stomach churns and I have to look away for a second before I become violently ill and undo everything I’ve just accomplished.

I take a deep breath and turn to face him again, and that’s when I realize that he really believes the shit that’s coming out of his own mouth. That I’ll learn to love his kisses. That I’ll somehow start to crave being with him.

Over my dead fucking body.

But I don’t say that. I just stand there, his disgusting taste still lingering in my mouth, and nod like the good little wife I’m pretending to be.

Patience isn’t a virtue I normally possess, but I somehow convince my mind to shut down long enough to sleep through the night after my conversation with Malcolm.

Now that he’s given me permission to rebuild Blood and Ink, I don’t want to waste any time getting started. But I know he’s already suspicious of my motives, so I can’t look too eager.

I force myself to wait through breakfast and lunch before I call a cab, and I’m on pins and needles the entire time. It feels like everything I have left in the world could be taken away on a whim.

Malcolm could decide that this new, tiny taste of freedom he’s given me is too dangerous. Or he might decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth and slit my throat for shits and giggles.

That danger is still on my mind when the cab pulls up outside a squat brick building in one of Detroit's rougher areas. Through the rearview mirror, I watch a black SUV stop half a block behind us, where Malcolm’s guards can watch every move I make like the good little lap dogs they are.

I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk, taking in the graffiti-covered walls and boarded-up windows of what used to be one of my dad's side operations.

Back then, it was a front for moving liquor, drugs, guns, and anything else that might turn a quick profit on the black market.

Now it's just another abandoned building in a city full of them.

Perfect.

The lock is rusted but it still holds. I fish my keychain from my pocket and sort through the older keys until I find the one I’m looking for. It takes some work, but the door finally creaks open, letting out a whiff of stale air.

The interior is dusty as hell, but exactly how I remember it, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings with metal rafters, and enough space to set up whatever the fuck I want.

There are empty boxes and old furniture scattered around, leftover from the last time this place was used, but that’s okay. I’ll use what I can and get rid of the rest.

I look over at an unused display case and think about how my dad used to bring me here from time to time. He always stressed how important it was to keep my real operations hidden behind boring, legitimate ones.

It’s a lesson that has served me well over the years, and I hope like hell it’ll keep serving me now.

Once I’ve spent some time on the ground floor, I feel my way down the basement stairs and move carefully stacks of rotting cardboard boxes and rusted metal shelving.

The musty smell gets stronger with every step, and it’s bringing back memories of following my father down here to learn all his secrets.

Including this one.

My fingers trail along the far wall until I find the slight gap between bricks. The hidden door groans as I push it open, revealing a narrow tunnel.

This fucking thing probably hasn't been used in years .

Cobwebs brush my face as I make my way through, and I have to duck under a few pipes. After about fifty feet, I reach another door that I know leads into the basement of Mickey's Bar.

The bar won't open for hours yet, but I know the back entrance code hasn't changed in over ten years.

Sure enough, it still works.

The familiar smell of stale beer and old cigarettes is almost comforting as I climb the stairs into the main bar. I grab a piece of paper and a pen from behind the register, then write two simple notes.

One to Mickey and one to my men.

If anyone can get word to them, it’s him. I just hope it’s enough to bring them here, if they're even still in Detroit. If they haven't already written me off as the backstabbing bitch I pretended to be.

But that's a big fucking if.

For all I know, they believed every word I said in that safe house. Maybe they think I really did choose Malcolm's power over their love. Maybe they've already left the city, wanting nothing more to do with me or the batshit crazy drama that seems to follow me everywhere I go.

The thought makes my chest ache, but I push it down. I can't afford to spiral right now. Not when Malcolm's guards are probably wondering what's taking me so long.

I slide the notes into the register’s cash drop, sending up a silent prayer that Mickey sees them. Then I retrace my steps through the tunnel and back up to the main floor of my dad's old building.

I spend a few more minutes walking the space, picturing where everything will go. The front desk here, the tattoo stations along that wall. But my mind keeps drifting to the possibility of seeing my men again.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. But first, it’s time to play the good little wife again.

The next night, I tell Malcolm I need to check on some things at the building. He allows it, probably thinking I'm actually starting to embrace this new life he's forced me into.

I slip into Mickey's, hoping at least one of my men will be there waiting for me.

But there are only a handful of old regulars sitting at the bar, and Mickey confirms he’s relayed the message—not to Nico, Atlas, or Killian directly, unfortunately, but to an intermediary he trusts.

It’s hard as hell not to be frustrated, and I do appreciate the favor. I just know I’m on borrowed time, and I fucking need this to work. More importantly, I need to see my men again.

The next night, I try again. Another excuse to Malcolm. Another bitter disappointment when they don't show up.

The following night, I have to seriously start to consider the possibility that they’ve moved on. That they don’t want to see me again.

The night after that, I’m almost ready to give up.