Page 268 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

ATLAS

I’m in my bedroom cleaning my gun when I hear the familiar pattern of knocks at the front door. Three distinct, two quick.

That’s Quinn’s code.

My heart rate spikes, and I set the weapon down to reach for my shirt. Before I can even get it over my head, I hear Killian’s heavy footsteps moving through the living room toward the entrance.

The door creaks open, and there’s a moment of silence. Then Killian’s voice, soft and surprised in a way I rarely hear it.

“Fuck.”

I tense, pulling my shirt down and moving toward the hallway. We’re all on edge these days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Malcolm to figure out we’re still seeing Quinn and burst through the door with his men.

But as I round the corner, what I see isn’t trouble. It’s Killian hauling Quinn against his chest, his mouth crushing against hers like he’s a dying man and she’s his last breath. Something in my chest loosens at the sight of her safe, here, with us where she belongs.

My relief is cut with a twinge of jealousy. Not because she’s kissing Killian—that’s never bothered me—but because he got to her first. It’s only been a day since I last touched her, but I’m fucking greedy and she’s addictive as hell.

Killian pulls her inside, and I frown as I see her hand him something small and fuzzy. What the hell? My eyes widen as I realize it’s the cat—Princess, or whatever the fuck Killian insists on calling it. The one we left behind when everything went to shit.

I stare as Killian cradles the animal to his chest, his expression softening in a way that would shock anyone who has ever been on his bad side. He murmurs soft words I can’t quite catch as he scratches the cat under its chin.

“Fucking Christ,” I say, leaning against the wall with a smirk. “A man who would put a knife through another man’s heart without a second thought, and he turns into a goddamn marshmallow for a ten-pound ball of fur.”

Killian looks up and immediately schools his features back into the usual unreadable mask, but his hands seem to still be extra-gentle with the cat. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” I smirk. “Or you might have held back on the baby talk.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts, then shakes his head, giving me a deadpan look. “You know what? Animals deserve that kind of talk. They aren’t shitty, like people tend to be. They deserve better.”

I shrug because I can’t really argue with that. After the shit I’ve seen people do to each other—along with all the shit I’ve done myself—it’s hard to disagree.

Quinn smiles as she looks back and forth between the two of us. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” I echo. “Killian Graves, world-renowned for his ability to make grown men piss themselves with a single look, and you’re calling him sweet?”

“Careful,” Killian warns, but there’s no real threat in his voice.

It’s a good thing, because I’m enjoying this way too much to stop now. “Has anyone ever called you sweet before?”

Killian flips me off, but there’s the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Seriously, fuck off.”

Quinn rolls her eyes at me, then leans in to press another kiss to Killian’s lips. “You’re both sweet in different ways, and I missed you both,” she says when they finally break apart. “All three of you.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” I say, pushing off the wall. “By my count, Killian has had at least three kisses from you—not to mention however many from the cat. It seems like you might have a favorite after all.”

I’m teasing both of them now, but the fact remains that I want a fucking kiss.

Her eyes find mine, and the heat in them makes my blood run hot. “Never.”

That’s all the invitation I need. I cross the room in three long strides and pull her out of Killian’s arms, spinning her to face me. My hand cups the back of her neck, and my fingers tangle in her teal hair as I crush my mouth to hers.

Her lips part instantly under mine, and I kiss her hard and deep, pouring all the fear and longing I felt while we were apart into it. I’ve never been good with words, never known how to say all the shit that builds up inside me, but I can show her with my hands, my mouth, and my body.

“Some of us are trying to have a fucking moment with our cat here,” Killian grumbles.

I break the kiss with a grin, keeping Quinn close against me. “Your cat will survive the trauma of watching.”

Heavy footsteps approach from the kitchen, and Nico appears in the doorway with a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He freezes when he sees Quinn, and something flashes in his eyes—relief, hunger, and love all at once.

“Mia cara.”

She steps out of my arms and moves to him, and I watch as he sets his beer aside and pulls her in close, his kiss gentler than mine but no less desperate. His hand cradles her face like she’s something precious, something he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch.

“Well, don’t let us interrupt your little reunion,” Killian says dryly, carrying Princess toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get this poor neglected animal some food.”

Quinn breaks away from Nico with a soft laugh. “She hasn’t been neglected,” she calls after Killian. “She’s been with Imogen.”

“Because Imogen is the warmest, most nurturing soul I’ve ever met,” Killian deadpans over his shoulder.

“Almost as warm and fuzzy as you,” I shoot back.

We follow him into the kitchen where he’s already rooting through the fridge, pulling out what looks like a package of deli meat. He tears off a small piece of turkey and offers it to the cat, who delicately takes it from his fingers.

“You’re really going to share our food with it?” Nico asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s probably been eating fucking cat food at Imogen’s,” Killian says, as if that explains everything. “She deserves better.”

“We’ll get her some proper food,” Quinn promises, leaning against the counter. She’s watching all of us with a small smile playing at her lips, and there’s something different about her today. A spark in her eyes that’s been missing for way too fucking long.

I study her for a moment, trying to figure out what’s changed. “You’re in a good mood. What’s going on?”

Her smile widens. “I’m making progress.”

“What kind of progress?” Nico asks, instantly alert.

Quinn glances toward the door, an old habit from years of being cautious. Even here, in what should be a safe place, she checks. We all do.

“I’m starting to turn Imogen against Malcolm,” she says, her voice low but excited. “She’s going to help me.”

“Help you how?” I ask, not bothering to hide my skepticism. I’ve learned not to trust anyone outside our tight circle, especially not someone who literally stabbed Quinn not so long ago.

She spends the next few minutes filling us in on her conversation with Imogen—how she learned about Imogen’s sister, how Malcolm manipulated her, and how Quinn planted the seed that Malcolm might have set up the whole situation.

“She thinks we can turn the other Syndicate members too,” Quinn says. “One by one, starting with Cassandra.”

“And you believe her?” Nico asks, voicing the doubt we’re all feeling. “You trust that she’s not just gathering intel to report back to Malcolm?”

Quinn hesitates. “I don’t trust her completely. But I think her hatred for Malcolm is real. You should have heard her voice when she talked about her sister, about how Malcolm showed up with his offer right after she died. There was real pain there. Real resentment.”

“Pain can be faked,” Killian points out, still feeding small bits of meat to Princess. “Manipulation is Malcolm’s specialty. Maybe Imogen learned from the master.”

“I don’t think so,” Quinn insists. “This felt genuine. And it makes sense—if Malcolm has been using this blood debt system to manipulate all of them, to build his little empire of powerful criminals who owe him… why wouldn’t they resent him for it?”

I exchange a look with Nico, who seems to be considering it.

“If she’s really on board,” he says slowly, “this could actually work. Imogen has connections and resources. She could help recruit the others.”

“Exactly,” Quinn says. “She already has a relationship with Cassandra. She thinks she can bring her over to our side.”

“And then what?” I ask. “Say you manage to turn all of these Syndicate members against Malcolm. What’s the endgame?”

Quinn’s expression hardens, a cold light entering her eyes. “We take him down. Permanently.”

“You mean kill him,” Killian clarifies, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “He dies. And we make sure everyone knows it was the Syndicate that did it—that his own people turned on him.”

“That sends a message,” Nico nods approvingly. “It destabilizes the power structure he built.”

“And it keeps us off the radar,” I add, starting to see the logic. “If it looks like internal Syndicate business, no one comes looking for outsiders to blame.”

“It’s smart,” Killian admits. “But it hinges entirely on these people actually hating Malcolm enough to turn on him. You’re sure about that?”

Quinn’s face is set with determination. “No one in that room genuinely likes Malcolm. They fear him, they respect his power, but they don’t like him.

And fear only gets you so far.” She takes a deep breath.

“Imogen said it herself—the members of the Syndicate are survivors first. If they think Malcolm is going down, they’ll abandon him to save themselves. ”

“Let’s hope they’re as predictable as Imogen thinks,” I say.

Quinn’s eyes meet mine, and I see a flash of the old Quinn there—the fierce leader who took over Enigma after her father died and kept it running through sheer force of will.

“They are,” she says with quiet certainty. “And even if they’re not, I’ll find another way. I’m not staying Malcolm’s wife for one day longer than necessary.”

I reach out and pull her to me, one arm wrapping around her shoulders. “Damn right you’re not,” I mutter against her hair. “You’re ours. And we’re taking you back.”