Page 279 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

Fuck. He saw me.

“What?” I force a confused laugh, trying to pull away from his grip without making it obvious. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His fingers tighten on my jacket enough to make it clear I’m not going anywhere. From the corner of my eye, I see Atlas and Nico both tensing, ready to move. Killian is already halfway out of his seat.

I give them the slightest shake of my head. A brawl is the last fucking thing we need right now. If we cause a scene, someone might remember us. Someone might connect us to what’s about to happen to Malcolm. And then we’re all fucked.

“My drink,” Ronan says, nodding toward his whiskey. His voice is calm and controlled—which somehow makes it even more terrifying. “What did you put in it while you were picking up your napkin?”

“Nothing.” I meet his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of innocent indignation I can muster. “I didn’t touch your drink.”

His mismatched eyes are oddly mesmerizing, especially when they’re filled with cold suspicion.

“Look,” I say, changing tactics, “I don’t know what you think you saw, but I was just getting my napkin. Maybe you should lay off the whiskey if you’re seeing things.” I try again to pull away, and again, his grip tightens.

“How about we take this outside?” he suggests, although it’s clearly not a suggestion. “I have some questions for you. And your friends over there.”

Shit. He’s spotted my men too. This guy doesn’t miss a fucking thing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat, glancing around as if looking for help. “Let go of me, or I’ll scream.”

His lips curve into what might be a smile on anyone else, but on him, it just looks predatory.

“No, you won’t,” he says quietly. “Because you don’t want to draw attention any more than I do.”

His eyes bore into mine, and my stomach clenches as the full reality of the situation hits me.

This man doesn’t miss anything. I’ve done sleight of hand in dangerous—even life-threatening—situations before.

Like with Harlan and the Young Killers when I covered for Nico shooting one of their members.

But Ronan Kane is nothing like Harlan. He’s sharp and dangerous, and I’ve just made a serious mistake in underestimating him.

“You’re good,” he says. “Very good, actually. I doubt most people would’ve caught you before it was too late. But then, I’m not most people.”

I don’t respond. The best I can do is keep my mouth shut and maintain eye contact while my brain scrambles for a way out of this mess.

With his free hand, he slides his glass across the bar toward me. “If you didn’t dose it, you should have no problem drinking it. Right?”

Fuck. He’s calling my bluff.

“I’m not drinking from your glass.” I try to sound disgusted rather than panicked. “I don’t know where your mouth has been.”

“Fair enough.” He nods toward the bartender. “Two fresh glasses.”

The bartender sets down two clean glasses, and Ronan releases my jacket long enough to pour half his whiskey into one glass and offer it to me. “There. Problem solved.”

My mind races through all the possible ways I could handle this, and none of them are good. With my men’s help, I could probably take this guy out the old-fashioned way, but not without a fight. And Ronan Kane doesn’t look like the type to go down easy.

I can see Nico from the corner of my eye, his body language screaming that he’s ready to move, to create a distraction, anything to get me out of this.

I try to buy myself time. “You’re being ridiculous. I don’t want your whiskey.”

“You’ve created this problem for yourself. It’s going to become a bigger problem if you don’t take a drink.”

I let his threat linger for a moment before I shake my head. “I’m not drinking it. I can’t.”

“And I assume you have a damn good reason as to why you can’t?”

I don’t have a good reason, but I do have the truth. And since he’s clearly not buying any of my bullshit, the truth might be all I have left.

“Because I drugged it.”

“What the fuck is going on here?” He actually snorts out a laugh before narrowing his eyes and giving me a hard, long look. “Who do you work for? Who the fuck sent you here?”

“Nobody. I?—”

“Was it Harrington?” he interrupts before I can say anything else. “Del Rio? Who?”

I hesitate, weighing my options. There’s no believable lie I can tell that would explain why I’d drug a stranger’s drink. And even if I tried, I’m pretty sure Ronan Kane would see through my bullshit anyway.

“I was trying to keep you from meeting Malcolm Mercer tonight,” I say finally, keeping my voice low. “I don’t want you to make it to that meeting.”

His eyes narrow immediately. “Why the fuck not?”

I swallow hard, glancing around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. I can’t tell him everything—he’s worked with Malcolm before—but from what Malcolm said, it sounded like they didn’t get along very well. Maybe he’ll understand my hatred of the man.

“Because Malcolm Mercer is a sociopath who manipulates everyone around him for his own gain,” I say, trying and failing to keep my feelings out of my voice. “He forced me to marry him. He’s threatened the people I care about.”

Ronan studies me with those mismatched eyes, his expression unreadable. “You don’t strike me as the type of woman anyone could force to do anything.”

“Yeah, well, even the strongest people break when someone has the right leverage.” I look down at the wedding ring I’m still forced to wear. “He knew how to get to me.”

Ronan snorts, a sound of pure derision. “Malcolm always was a spineless little weasel. Never could get his hands dirty himself. He was always manipulating others to do his work and using threats instead of earning loyalty.”

His casual contempt for Malcolm surprises me. It’s clear he really doesn’t like him, which I hope will work in my favor.

“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower, “all you want from me is to not show up to this meeting?”

I nod, knowing this is the make-or-break moment. “That’s it. Just don’t go.”

He leans back in his chair, considering me for what feels like an eternity. Then he slides his whiskey across the bar toward the bartender with a flick of his wrist.

“I need a new one,” he calls out. “Actually, make it a double. I think I’ll be here all night.”

I let out a shaky breath, relief washing over me in a dizzying wave. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

He shoots me a look I can’t quite read, something like half-respect, half-amusement. “My brothers would never forgive me if I fucked over a woman who’d been trapped in a marriage,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.

There’s clearly a story there—something personal that touches a nerve—but I have no time to satisfy my curiosity. I need to get out of here before he changes his mind.

I stand up, ready to make my exit, when his hand catches my wrist one more time—gentle now, not restraining.

“Good luck,” he says, and I know he understands more than I’ve told him. “Whatever you’re planning for Malcolm… you’d better make it stick.”

I nod once and slip away, moving quickly through the bar toward the exit, not daring to look back. My men will see me leaving and follow at a safe distance.

I’ve barely made it half a block when they catch up with me. Atlas reaches me first, steering me toward an alley and away from prying eyes with a hand on my lower back.

“What the fuck happened in there?” Nico asks, more worried than angry. “We saw him grab you. I was about to come over when you gave us the signal to stay back.”

“He caught me,” I admit, still shaken by how close I came to blowing everything. “He saw me put the shit in his drink.”

“Jesus Christ,” Killian mutters. “And he still let you walk out of there?”

“I told him the truth. Most of it, anyway.” I glance back toward the bar. “I told him Malcolm forced me to marry him and that I didn’t want him to go to the meeting.”

“And he bought that?” Atlas’s brow furrows in disbelief.

“He more than bought it. He doesn’t like Malcolm. Called him a spineless weasel.” I pull the wig off and shake out my teal hair, finally feeling like I can breathe again. “He’s going to stay at the bar and skip the meeting.”

“You believe him?” Nico asks, clearly still skeptical as he looks back over his shoulder. “Just like that?”

“You didn’t see his face when I mentioned Malcolm,” I say. “There’s bad blood there. And he said something about his brothers never forgiving him if he fucked over a woman trapped in a marriage.”

“He could change his mind,” Killian says, looking out for me as always. “We need to stay prepared for anything.”

“We do need to stay prepared,” I agree, trying not to let Killian’s warning set off my own anxiety. “And yeah, he could change his mind. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. The plan is in motion. Either way, Malcolm is walking into that room tonight expecting to meet with Ronan.”

Nico checks his watch. “We need to move. The others will be waiting, and we need to be in position before Malcolm arrives.”

I nod, knowing he’s right. There’s no time to keep second-guessing or worrying about Ronan now. No matter what else happens tonight, Malcolm’s fate is sealed.

“Let’s go end this,” I say.

The Vault sits at the edge of downtown, a sleek two-story building with dark windows and a discreet entrance.

We approach from the back alley, staying in the shadows. A black sedan is parked by the service entrance—Imogen’s car. She’s waiting for us, leaning against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette with practiced elegance.

“You’re cutting it close,” she says, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under her stiletto. “Malcolm will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Ronan has been taken care of,” I report, confirming what she already knows was my assignment. “He won’t be showing up tonight.”