Page 264 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I slide back into the SUV waiting outside Willow’s place, and Malcolm’s driver gives me a questioning look in the rearview mirror. He’s clearly expecting me to tell him to take me back to my gilded cage, but I have other plans today.

“I want to go see Imogen Brooks,” I say, locking onto his gaze in the mirror and silently challenging him to question me.

His brow furrows, just like I knew it would. “Mrs. Mercer, I don’t think?—”

“I want to see my cat,” I cut him off. “And it’s still at her place.”

He hesitates, fingers hovering over the steering wheel. “I should probably check with Mr. Mercer first.”

Time to play my part as Malcolm’s new wife.

“You really think my husband wants to be bothered for permission every time I want to see my pet? I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Malcolm is a busy man.

” I lean forward slightly without breaking eye contact.

“And I’m also pretty sure he’d be annoyed to learn that such a simple request from his wife was denied for no reason. ”

The driver shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I can almost see him weighing his options. Does he risk Malcolm’s wrath for denying his new wife something trivial? Or risk it for letting me go somewhere without explicit permission?

“Besides,” I add casually, “Imogen is an associate of Malcolm’s. She’ll brief him on my visit just as thoroughly as you will.”

“But Mrs. Mercer, my instructions were clear?—”

“Your instructions were to drive me where I need to go and keep me safe,” I counter. “I’m telling you where I need to go. Unless you think Imogen Brooks represents some kind of threat to me?”

He holds my gaze for another second, then quickly looks away. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Then I don’t see the problem.”

That seems to be the deciding factor. With a reluctant nod, we pull away from the curb. “Yes, Mrs. Mercer.”

The title makes my stomach clench, but I lean back against the leather seat, satisfied. Every small victory counts in this war I’m waging.

As we drive through town, I stare out the window and mentally rehearse what I’m going to say to Imogen. I need allies, and she’s my best shot right now. The other Syndicate members respect her, and more importantly, she’s already shown hints that she’s not Malcolm’s biggest fan.

It’s a risk, but calculated risks are all I have right now.

Imogen doesn’t even try to hide her annoyance when she opens her door and finds me standing there.

“Back for another visit so soon?” She purses her lips and looks me up and down. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mrs. Mercer?”

The name sounds even worse coming from her lips, but I force a smile. “I was hoping to see Princess again.”

She rolls her eyes, but steps aside to let me in. “Of course you were.”

“Is this a bad time?” I ask, stepping past her into the apartment.

“No. Just unexpected. I didn’t realize you were such an enthusiastic cat person.”

“I didn’t realize it myself until recently,” I admit, scanning the room. “Where is she?”

Imogen points toward the sun room. “Same place she always is this time of day. Sunning herself like… well, like a pampered princess.”

The cat is curled up on a plush cushion by the window in the next room, her tail flicking lazily in the afternoon sun. She lifts her head when I approach, and to my surprise, gets up to rub against my legs with a soft purr.

“Traitor,” Imogen mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.

“She still remembers me.”

“Cats remember the people who feed them,” she replies. “And who pet them the way they like.”

I sink down onto the couch and let the cat climb into my lap, running my fingers through her soft fur. The simple act of petting an animal that doesn’t want anything from me except affection feels more soothing than it has any right to.

“Did you actually come just for the cat,” Imogen asks, crossing her arms, “or was there something else you wanted?”

“Can’t it be both?”

She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head with something like grudging amusement. “You’re smarter than I initially gave you credit for, Quinn Kent. Or should I say, Quinn Mercer?”

I wince. “Please don’t.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me,” I say after a few moments of silence, deciding that honesty is my best strategy here. “About how all the Syndicate members got their marks.”

Imogen pours herself a drink from a crystal decanter on the sideboard. She doesn’t offer me one. “Have you now?”

“I didn’t know about the blood debt situation until you mentioned it,” I continue, watching her carefully. “My father never told me.”

She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of her glass. “Have you considered that perhaps he was trying to protect you?”

“From what? The truth?” I scoff. “That protection didn’t do me much good in the end.”

“Some truths are more dangerous than others.” She leans against the sideboard, glass in hand. “Especially when they involve Malcolm Mercer.”

“So I’m discovering.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And why are you telling me this? What’s your angle here?”

“No angle,” I lie. “I just needed someone to talk to who understands the situation. Someone who isn’t…” I trail off.

“Malcolm?” she finishes for me.

I nod. “I went back and asked him how my father was given entry. It didn’t go well.”

That gets her attention. She lowers her glass, something like curiosity flickering across her face.

“What happened?” she asks, and there’s a hint of concern in her voice that surprises me.

“He didn’t want to tell me at first,” I grimace, remembering his dismissive attitude. “But I pushed. I demanded answers.”

“That was risky. Malcolm doesn’t respond well to demands.”

“I know that now,” I say quietly, letting my hand drift to my arm where his fingers gripped too tightly. “But he did finally admit it.”

“And what did our esteemed leader say?”

“He admitted it was because my mother died due to a job my father did for him.”

Imogen doesn’t look surprised, just nods slowly. “I didn’t know the specifics, of course, but I would have guessed something along those lines. That’s how Malcolm operates. It’s how he’s always operated.”

“Using people’s pain and loss to manipulate them?” I ask, although I already know the answer.

“Exactly.” She downs the rest of her drink in one smooth motion. “He finds your weakness—usually the people you care about—and he exploits it. By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late. You’re already caught in his web.”

“And he never faces consequences,” I add bitterly.

“No,” she agrees. “He never does.”

Princess purrs under my hand, oblivious to the darkness of our conversation. I stroke her head, trying to gather my thoughts.

“I’ve been torn about how my father handled it,” I admit, the words coming out before I can second-guess them. “Part of me respects him for not wanting to associate with the man who, even indirectly, got my mother killed.”

Imogen doesn’t move or say anything else. For now, she’s just watching me with an unreadable expression.

“But at the same time,” I continue, “him tattooing the mark on me without telling me about any of this… it set me up as a target. As a pawn.” My voice hardens a little. “If he’d just told me the truth, maybe I could have been prepared. Maybe things would have played out differently.”

“You think you could have avoided all this?” Imogen gestures vaguely, encompassing my current situation. “Malcolm would have found another way to get to you. He always does.”

“Maybe. But at least I would have been fighting with open eyes. I wouldn’t have walked right into his trap thinking I was making my own choices.”

“Your father probably thought he was doing the right thing,” Imogen says, surprising me with her insight. “It’s obvious he loved you. He thought he was protecting you from a truth that would only hurt you.”

“Noble intentions, shitty execution,” I mutter.

“Isn’t that the way it goes with most parents?”

“Did yours screw you over too?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Imogen’s expression closes off. “They haven’t been a part of my life for a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

“Don’t be.” She shrugs with practiced indifference. “I’m not. I barely remember them.”

“But you were close with your sister?” I ask, genuinely curious now.

“Yes, I was,” she answers after a pause. “Layla. She was everything to me.”

The way she says her sister’s name—with a softness I’ve never heard in her voice before—tells me everything I need to know about how much she loved her.

Imogen sets her empty glass down and walks over to sit across from me. For the first time since I’ve known her, her face softens with a genuine look of sympathy.

“I also considered not joining the Syndicate,” she says quietly.

This is unexpected. I keep my face neutral, not wanting to break whatever spell has her opening up to me.

“You did?” I prompt gently when she doesn’t continue for a few more seconds.

She nods. “After what happened with Layla, I didn’t want anything to do with Malcolm or his offer.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Fear,” she admits. “Practical concerns. Layla was my partner in everything. Our casino operation, our money laundering business, all of it.” Her eyes drift to a framed photo on the side table that I hadn’t noticed before.

Two women, arms around each other, laughing at the camera.

“When she died, I was afraid of losing everything we’d built.

So I joined the Syndicate to keep our empire from crumbling. ”

“You needed protection,” I say, understanding dawning.

“I needed resources,” she corrects me. “Connections. The kind of power that would ensure no one tried to move in on our territory while I was vulnerable.”

I recognize this for what it is—an olive branch, a small piece of trust. I also recognize similarities to my own position when I first sought out Malcolm and the Syndicate.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” I say, meaning it. “How did she die? If you don’t mind me asking.”