Page 277 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

It’s getting late by the time I slip back into Malcolm’s house, but I don’t care.

My heart is still full from the ceremony my men and I just shared.

The marks on their chests are a physical reminder of what we all know in our souls—that we belong to each other, and we’re bound by something stronger than paper or traditional vows.

But here, in this cold mansion that feels more like a prison than a home, I have to bury those memories as deep as I can for now while I pretend to be Malcolm’s obedient wife.

He’s in the living room when I walk in, reading something on his tablet. He glances up, tracking me with that predatory focus that makes my stomach twist.

“Where have you been?” His tone is almost casual, but there’s no way to miss the hint of accusation, or at least suspicion, underneath.

“Blood and Ink,” I answer smoothly. “We’re making such good progress with the renovations.” I hang up my jacket, moving with deliberate casualness. “I lost track of time.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time there.” He sets his tablet down and watches me. “Your dedication is… admirable.”

“Well, you’re the one who gave me permission to rebuild. I want to make it worth the effort.”

“And is it?” His eyes never leave my face. “Worth the effort?”

“It will be.” I force a smile. “It’s the only thing I have left of my old life. I want to do it right.”

“Of course. As long as you remember where your new life is.”

“How could I forget?” I do my best to keep my tone light even though the words nearly choke me.

We go through our nightly routine—that awful ritual of preparing for bed in the same space.

I stay aware of every move he makes, of the way he watches me as I brush my teeth and change clothes.

After what happened this morning, every nerve ending in my body is on high alert, ready to fight if I need to.

I crawl into bed first and he slides in next to me, turning toward me as the mattress dips under his weight.

“Have all your old people returned to the fold now that you’re building a new home for them?”

I nod. “A couple of my old crew have come back. It’ll be interesting to see how many are still loyal to me and how many were just sticking around because they felt like they owed it to my father.”

“Loyalty,” Malcolm says, rolling the word on his tongue like he’s saying the word for the first time. “Such a rare commodity these days.”

“It’s earned,” I reply, knowing the conversation is veering into dangerous territory but unable to keep a slight edge from my voice. “I learned that lesson from my father.”

“Remember that lesson when you’re rebuilding.” He pauses. “The Enigma name carries weight. Use it wisely.”

“I intend to,” I say, thinking how I’ve already begun to use it against him. “It’s slow, but it’s happening.”

The conversation lulls, and I see an opportunity to get information I desperately need.

“Did you manage to set up that meeting with Ronan?” I ask, keeping my tone as casual as possible. “For Elliot’s votum?”

He nods. “It’s arranged for tomorrow at The Vault. Seven o’clock.”

“The hookah lounge downtown?” I ask, as if confirming something I vaguely recall.

“Yes. They have private rooms in the back. Suitable for… discreet conversations.”

I file that information away, memorizing it like my life depends on it—because it does. The Vault is an upscale hookah den in the heart of Detroit, known for its private rooms and discretion. Perfect for criminal dealings. Even better for an ambush.

“What’s he like?” I ask, and this time I don’t have to fake my mild curiosity. “Ronan, I mean. I’ve never dealt with anyone from New York before.”

Malcolm leans back against his pillows. “He’s quite particular. He runs his operation with his two brothers, and they’ve built an impressive empire in a relatively short time.”

“Brothers? Are they older? Younger?”

“Twins, from what I understand. Younger than Ronan.” He adjusts his position, seemingly pleased with how attentive I’m being. “The three of them were hitmen originally—the best money could buy, apparently.”

“So they went from killing for others to building an empire where others kill for them. That takes more ambition than the run-of-the-mill hired gun has, in my experience.”

“Indeed. But they’ve been remarkably successful. In less than five years, they’ve established control over a considerable chunk of Manhattan’s underground business.”

“Impressive,” I say, wondering if any of this information will come in handy when it comes time to convince Ronan to stay away from his meeting with Malcolm.

“Elliot may find him difficult to deal with,” he continues, grimacing as if he’s just tasted something sour.

“Ronan doesn’t operate the way most of us do.

He’s hard to read. Unpredictable. He and his brothers have their own moral code they adhere to, regardless of anything else—including potential profit. ”

Coming from Malcolm, that’s almost funny. Of course someone with actual principles would irritate him. I’ve seen firsthand how he manipulates and entraps people into his service, then bends and breaks whatever rules don’t suit him at the moment.

“Sounds like they have boundaries,” I observe. “That’s rare in this world.”

“Boundaries are just obstacles to profit,” Malcolm counters. “But they’ve managed to succeed despite their limitations. I suppose there’s something to be said for that.”

“Maybe there’s more profit in having principles than you think,” I suggest, unable to resist the small dig at him.

His eyes harden. “Principles are luxuries, Quinn. Power is the only currency that truly matters. Anyway, let’s not talk about this anymore.”

His expression changes, his eyes darkening as he reaches out and slides his hand around my waist to pull me closer. My body goes instantly rigid as I start to panic.

“Come here.” His voice drops to a tone that he probably thinks is seductive, but only makes my stomach turn. “I’ve been patient enough, don’t you think? It’s time you fulfilled your wifely duties.”

I place my hand against his chest, creating distance without making it obvious that his touch repulses me.

“I’m really not feeling well tonight,” I say, trying to sound disappointed rather than revolted as I force my features into an apologetic expression. “I think it was something I ate earlier. My stomach has been off all evening.”

His fingers tighten on my waist. “You seemed fine five seconds ago.”

“It comes and goes,” I lie. “I didn’t want to mention it and ruin the mood, but…”

His jaw tightens, and it’s impossible to miss the irritation flashing in his eyes. Before he can speak, I trail my finger down his chest in a gesture that turns my stomach even as I force myself to do it.

“Tomorrow,” I promise, knowing it’s another lie. “Tomorrow night, I’ll give you everything. I just want it to be perfect.” I swallow hard. “Not like this, though, please. Not when I’m feeling ill.”

“You always have an excuse. I’m beginning to think you’re deliberately trying to test my patience.”

“No,” I say quickly, fear shooting through me. “Not at all. I just… I want our first time to be special, don’t you? Tomorrow, I’ll be ready. I promise.”

He stares at me with those cold, calculating eyes, and doesn’t say anything at all for several more seconds.

“Fine,” he says finally. “One more day.” He grips my chin hard, making me grimace even though I refuse to give him the satisfaction of gasping or making any other noise.

“But tomorrow night, after my meeting with Ronan, I’m taking my wife to bed.

” His eyes bore into mine. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I understand. Tomorrow night. I’ll be ready.”

“You keep saying that,” he says, the threat in his voice unmistakable. “So if you are really testing my patience, I’d advise you to stop. Immediately.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry for making you wait. It’s just… everything’s happened so fast between us.”

“Fast? We’ve been married for weeks now.”

“And I appreciate that you’ve let me wait this long,” I say quickly. “I do. Tomorrow will be different. I promise.”

“It had better be.” He releases my chin roughly. “Because I won’t be denied what’s mine any longer.”

He turns away without saying anything else, then shuts off his bedside lamp with a decisive click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.

“Goodnight, wife.”

I take a beat to make sure there’s not an edge to my tone before I open my mouth again. “Goodnight.”

I lie awake in the darkness beside him and listen to his breathing even out as he falls asleep.

Tomorrow has to work. All of it—intercepting Ronan, the Syndicate’s ambush of Malcolm—has to go perfectly.

Because if it doesn’t, if Malcolm walks out of that meeting alive, I know exactly what will be waiting for me when he comes back home.

And I would rather die than let that happen.