Page 271 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

Five days have passed, each one worse than the last. Five fucking days of playing house with a monster. Five days of smiling through gritted teeth when I want to scream. Five days of letting Malcolm believe he’s winning me over, inch by excruciating inch.

“You look beautiful today,” he says every goddamn morning, watching me dress like I’m one of his expensive antiques he keeps on display throughout the house.

I force myself to smile. “Thank you,” I say, and hate myself a little more each time.

Every night, I slide into his bed, stiff as a board with tension and barely able to keep from screaming. I’ve mastered the art of falling asleep while feeling hunted. Malcolm hasn’t pushed for sex again, but each night his hands wander a little farther, testing my boundaries a little more.

It’s a sick fucking game to him, and I’m convinced he’s only interested in seeing how far he can push me before I break.

I won’t break.

Not when I’m making so much progress on every other front. Imogen sent word yesterday that Cassandra is in. She didn’t need much convincing once Imogen laid out how Malcolm had manipulated all of us, using our pain and loss to bind us to him.

If each Syndicate member is another step to freedom, I’ve already got two down with three left to go.

But Jesus Christ, I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Every hour in this house feels like I’m suffocating, and being near Malcolm makes me literally, physically ill.

There’s nothing about this situation that’s conducive to playing the part of a meek little wife, but that’s exactly what I have to do if I’m going to survive long enough to kill him.

I miss my men so badly it’s a physical ache. I want their hands and their mouths. I want them to fuck me until every trace of Malcolm has been erased and I can’t remember anything but the three of them.

Soon, I tell myself. Soon this will all be over. Malcolm will be dead, and I’ll be free.

I grab my jacket off the hook by the door, and my cab is waiting outside. He’s finally given me enough freedom to go to the tattoo parlor without being driven by one of his fucking goons, so that’s where I’ve been spending most of my time.

I’m pretty sure he’s still having me followed, but I’ll take it as a win for now.

And today, Blood and Ink—my sanctuary, my excuse to breathe free air for a few precious hours—is calling. The renovations are nearly complete, and we’re getting close to reopening.

“Quinn.”

Fuck. His voice stops me cold even though I already have one hand on the doorknob. I turn slowly, schooling my expression into something that I hope resembles mild curiosity.

“Yes?”

Malcolm is standing at the other end of the foyer, just at the foot of the stairs, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

My stomach twists into a knot as I walk back toward him as slowly as possible without looking overly reluctant. This is part of the game—the one where I pretend to be a dutiful wife. The one where I act like I don’t fantasize about slitting his throat while he sleeps.

“I’m sorry.” The lie comes easily enough these days. “You’re right. I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

I lean in to kiss his cheek—the bare minimum I can get away with—but he’s ready for me. His hand shoots up, fingers tangling in my hair, gripping hard enough to make my scalp burn. He waits until I gasp from the sudden burst of pain, then turns his head and captures my mouth with his.

His tongue forces its way past my lips, and I fight the urge to bite down until I taste blood. His other hand drops to my lower back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel him hardening against my stomach.

Everything inside me goes cold and still, like a small animal playing dead in the jaws of a predator.

I close my eyes and pretend like I’m anywhere but here, trapped in this body, in this house, in his arms. When he finally releases me, I struggle not to gag. I won’t even give him the satisfaction of wiping my mouth or showing any reaction at all.

His fingers loosen in my hair but don’t let go completely. Instead, he rubs a strand between his thumb and forefinger, examining it.

“Your roots are coming in,” he says, studying the dark brown hair showing at my scalp where the teal has grown out. “Is this your natural color?”

“Yes,” I answer, trying to pull away subtly. My skin crawls at his touch and the possessive way he looks at me. “I’ve been meaning to dye it again.”

His expression hardens slightly. “You should let it grow out. The natural color suits you better.”

There’s something in his eyes that chills me, a flash of something I can’t quite identify. Recognition? Nostalgia? Whatever it is, I hate it.

Why the fuck does he care what color my hair is?

I want to scream, and kick, and gouge his fucking eyes out. Instead, I shrug noncommittally. “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”

He’s still looking at me, his eyes trailing over my features like he’s searching for something—or someone—in them.

“You remind me more of her every day,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

I take a deliberate step back, breaking contact. “I should get going. There’s a lot to do at the shop today.”

He nods, letting me retreat. “Don’t be too late.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command, wrapped in the thin veneer of civility.

“I won’t,” I answer, already calculating how I can stretch every damn minute away from him.

As I finally escape out the front door, I take my first full breath since waking up, filling my lungs with fresh air until they burn. Then I head toward my cab, toward a few hours of freedom.

Blood and Ink is buzzing with activity when I arrive. The place still smells like sawdust and fresh paint, but it’s starting to look like something real. Something we can all be proud of.

“Morning, Quinn,” Damon nods as I walk in, hammer in hand. He’s installing shelving behind what will be the reception counter. “The electrical got finished this morning. We’ve got power in every room now.”

“Fucking finally,” I say, dropping my bag on a stack of boxes. “And the plumbing?”

“They should be coming out tomorrow,” Cabby calls from across the room where he’s sanding down a wall. His arms are covered in white dust. “That asshole wanted more money up front, but I persuaded him our original deal was fair.”

I grin, knowing Cabby’s idea of “persuasion” probably involved showing the plumber the gun he keeps tucked in his waistband. “Good. We’re gonna be open for business soon, boys.”

I make my rounds, checking progress and giving orders, feeling more like myself with every passing minute. This is who I am. Not Malcolm’s puppet wife, not some broken doll. I’m still the leader of Enigma. I’m still my father’s daughter.

“Hey, your office downstairs is almost done,” Damon says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Just need to finish the?—”

He stops mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I turn to see Imogen standing in the doorway, her auburn hair gleaming and perfectly coiffed as always. But she’s not alone. Fucking Elliot is right beside her, sucking all the oxygen out of the room as his cold eyes scan the room.

My heart slams against my ribs. What the fuck is she thinking, bringing him here? We haven’t even sounded him out yet.

“Quinn,” Imogen says with a hint of apology in her voice. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” I lie, doing my best to keep my true feelings in check. “I was just checking on progress.”

Elliot snorts and looks around, clearly unimpressed. “This is what you’re so proud of? It looks like a fucking dump to me.”

My jaw tightens, but Imogen steps in before I can tell him exactly how to go fuck himself.

“She’s rebuilding from nothing,” she says with a sharpness in her tone that definitely gets his attention. “That takes guts. How many people get burned out and just disappear? Quinn doesn’t stay down. She fights back. That’s worth more than fancy furniture or a skyline view.”

Elliot grunts, but I catch something flicker in his eyes. Respect? Maybe. Or just surprise that Imogen is defending me.

“Let’s talk in my office,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs that lead down to the basement. “Such as it is.”

The men give Elliot wary looks as we pass, but I signal them to stand down with a tiny shake of my head. We’ve already gotten off to a rocky start. The last thing I need is for this meeting to get derailed completely by someone trying to defend my honor.

I lead them to the basement, making sure to steer clear of the hidden entrance to the tunnel. My “office” is still mostly bare—a metal desk, three mismatched chairs, and a cheap lamp. A far cry from the sleek setup I had before, but it’s still a work in progress.

“Charming,” Elliot says dryly, dropping into a chair without being invited. “Running your empire from a fucking janitor’s closet now?”

“I’ve worked with less,” I say, staying on my feet. “Why are you here?”

Imogen perches on the edge of the desk. “I thought it was time we all had a chat.”

“I have a feeling it’s going to be a quick chat,” Elliot says, leaning back in his chair. “As far as I can tell, this is a waste of my fucking time.”

Jesus, I want to punch him. Or stab him and let him bleed out here in my janitor’s closet of an office. That would be poetic justice, and probably a better use of all our time.

“Do you ever feel like we gave away too much?” Imogen asks, ignoring his comment and the way I’m glaring at him from across the cramped space. “Joining the Syndicate, I mean.”

Elliot’s eyes narrow. “It’s a little late in the game to be having second thoughts, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t been having second thoughts,” she says carefully. “But even the most promising arrangement can go stale after so long. Maybe it’s time to reassess.”

Elliot snorts. “You mean the arrangement where Malcolm calls the shots and we all fall in line like good little soldiers? Yeah, I’d say the polish has gone right the fuck off that arrangement.”