Page 252 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I pace around the too-big, too-fancy chef’s kitchen rehearsing my lie for the hundredth time, wishing I was anywhere else in the world but here.

No, that’s not true.

I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to be with my men.

My fingers absently twist the wedding ring I hate so fucking much, and I force myself to stop in my tracks and take a deep, calming breath just as I hear my jailer coming down the hallway.

Malcolm walks in, impeccably dressed as always, and I silently remind myself not to stiffen. His eyes land on me instantly—they always do. Like a predator tracking its prey.

“Cooking something?” He glances over at the spotlessly clean stovetop. “I didn’t think so. But then, I didn’t marry you for your abilities as a housewife.”

Jesus . Every word out of his mouth makes me want to dry heave, but I’m determined to let his petty little digs and smug fucking looks slide for now.

“I thought I’d go see Imogen today,” I say, as if it’s the most normal, mundane thing in the world.

“What?” The word comes out harsh and immediate, cracking his arrogant veneer—but only for a split-second. His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. “Is this more of your Enigma business?”

At least I don’t have to lie about this part. “No. She has my cat.”

I can tell by the confused look that flashes across his hard, angular features that I’ve caught him off guard again. “Your cat?”

“Yeah. In case you’ve forgotten, you didn’t really give me a chance to sort my life out before you tried to kill me and then forced me to marry you.

” His expression hardens again and I have to remind myself to bite my fucking tongue before it gets me into trouble.

Again. “Anyway, I miss my cat, and I’d like to thank Imogen properly for taking care of her. ”

He stays quiet for several long seconds, and I wonder if he might put his foot down and keep me under house arrest simply out of spite.

Thankfully, he gives in with a dismissive gesture, as if the whole conversation is suddenly beneath him. “I suppose that could be arranged. I’ll have someone drive you.”

“Of course.” I offer the fake smile that I’ve damn near perfected since I’ve been staying here. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

I turn and start heading back to my room before he has a chance to change his mind. I’ll leave him to plot or sulk or whatever it is that he does when I’m not around. I have more important things to do.

I’ve spent the past few days thinking back to every interaction I’ve had with the Syndicate and every meeting I’ve attended—anything that might help me figure out who else might hate Malcolm enough to turn on him. So far, I’ve got next to nothing.

It would help, of course, if I’d been a member for longer. I’d know more about their personalities and personal lives. I’d know their tics and tells and maybe even a little dirt to help me along.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to learn any of that shit, so I’m stuck with the tidbits I do know—and those tidbits all lead back to Imogen.

She’s the one who gave me and my men a place to stay when nobody else was going to. She’s the one who kept Princess alive without being asked or compensated for the trouble.

And she’s the one who tipped me off to the fact that Malcolm might not be as all-knowing and all-powerful within the Syndicate as he’d like to make people think.

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots that have taken up permanent residence there. My body is wound so tight I feel like I might fucking snap in half. I can’t remember the last time I even took a full breath.

Living with Malcolm is like tiptoeing through a damn minefield. He scrutinizes every move I make and every word out of my mouth, and I’m almost certain that every conversation is a test.

Tests I’m probably failing, since I’m not the greatest at swallowing my feelings or keeping my mouth shut when I feel like I’m being pressured.

At least he hasn’t tried to touch me again, not since that first kiss after our “wedding,” but his eyes follow me everywhere, and I know it’s only a matter of time before his patience wears out completely.

At night, I lock my bedroom door, even though I know it wouldn’t stop him if he really wanted to get in. It’s more symbolic than anything else—a tiny act of defiance that helps me sleep.

But not well. Never well.

There’s never any doubt that he holds all the cards, and they’re all stacked in his favor. That knowledge and the cold look in his eyes makes me feel like prey from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night.

I fucking hate that feeling. The only time it ever felt sexy to be chased was when my men were doing the chasing.

Malcolm’s driver takes me to Imogen’s place in a sleek black SUV with windows tinted so dark that they make the interior of the vehicle unusually dim and oppressive.

Or maybe that’s just due to the mood I’m in.

One of Malcolm’s guards is sitting next to me in the back seat, with his bulky frame taking up more than his fair share of space. I press myself against the door, creating as much distance between us as possible.

Even though I’m not at the house anymore, I don’t feel any real sense of freedom. This is just a different kind of cage, with different walls.

As we drive through Detroit’s upscale neighborhoods, doubt starts to creep in. What the fuck am I doing? Am I walking straight into a trap? Imogen might have taken the cat in, but she also drove a knife into my chest not that long ago.

The memory of being chained to that wall flashes through my mind—all of them lining up to take their turn with the knife. Malcolm’s cold eyes. Elliot’s vicious twist of the blade. And Imogen, with her unreadable expression as she stepped up for her turn.

I rub absently at my upper chest where her knife went in. The wound has mostly healed now, but sometimes I swear I can still feel the bite of steel.

“Mrs. Mercer, we’ve arrived,” the driver says, and I flinch at the name. I’ll never be a fucking Mercer, no matter what a piece of paper says I am.

As I step out of the SUV, I instinctively check my surroundings and try to steady my racing nerves.

I’m probably overthinking this. If I’m going to pull off this insurrection, I need allies, and Imogen is the closest thing I have to a potential one.

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she held back when she stabbed me. Elliot went in deep, twisting the knife for maximum damage. But Imogen’s strike was different—calculated, precise, and shallow. The knife barely penetrated, missing everything vital.

She could have killed me if she wanted to, but she chose not to.

And then there’s the cat. She didn’t have to take Princess in. She didn’t have to feed or care for her. She could have easily left the poor thing to starve in that penthouse, or worse.

But she didn’t. And all of that leads me to believe there’s something there. Something I can work with.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” I tell the guard who is shadowing me toward the building entrance.

“Mr. Mercer’s orders are to?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what Malcolm’s orders are,” I snap. “I’m going to see a goddamn cat, not plan a jailbreak. Wait in the car.”

He looks uncertain, then reluctantly nods. “We’ll be right outside, Mrs. Mercer. Call if you need anything.”

I flash him a tight smile. “Believe me, if I need anything, you’ll be the last person I call.”

Once I’m inside, I have to jump through a few more hoops and wait for the doorman to call up to Imogen’s penthouse before I’m allowed into the private elevator that whisks me up to the top floor.

When I knock, there’s a long pause before the door swings open. Imogen stands there in designer loungewear with her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She blinks at me like I’m the last person she expected to see.

“Quinn? What are you doing here?”

I force a casual smile. “I came to see the cat. I would’ve called first, except…”

“Malcolm probably doesn’t let you use the phone without his supervision.”

At least she understands, even if it is almost embarrassing to admit. She doesn’t step aside though. Instead, she gives me a slow up-and-down look.

“So you really came all this way to see a cat?” she asks.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

She studies me for another long moment, her green eyes searching mine for whatever hidden agenda she assumes I must have. Finally, she steps back and waves me inside with a dramatic sweep of her arm.

“By all means, come in. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa and all that bullshit.”

Her penthouse is just as stunning as the one she loaned us before, with an open concept layout and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Detroit.

The furniture and artwork is all modern but tasteful, with splashes of deep emerald here and there that match her eyes.

The place makes Malcolm’s house look like a funeral home by comparison.

“Nice place,” I say, following her into the living room.

“It should be, after how much I paid for it.” She moves around the room slowly, watching me with undisguised curiosity. “Your cat is probably in the sunroom. That’s where she likes to nap.”

I follow Imogen down the hallway to find Princess sprawled across a chaise lounge in the glass-enclosed sunroom, soaking up a patch of afternoon light. She lifts her head when I enter, and narrows her eyes slightly.

“Hey, you,” I say softly, approaching slowly with my hand out. “Remember me?”

To my surprise, Princess stretches lazily before padding across the cushion toward me. She sniffs my fingers, then butts her head against my palm with a rumbling purr.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I laugh, scratching behind her ears as she arches into my touch. “She actually remembers me.”

“Or she just likes the smell of your hand lotion,” Imogen says from the doorway, watching us with an unreadable expression.

I look up, still smiling. “Thank you. For taking care of her, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”