Page 281 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

Malcolm’s guards flood through the doorway, weapons drawn, and the sound of gunfire erupts from every corner of the room. I dive behind an oversized ottoman as bullets tear into the upholstery, sending tufts of fabric and foam into the air.

“Kill them all!” Malcolm shouts, his voice rising above the gunfire and shouting.

I peek around the edge of my cover, seeing Nico and Killian fighting off two of Malcolm’s men.

Atlas has one guard in a chokehold while another swings wildly at him with a knife.

Cassandra has taken cover behind an overturned hookah table, firing methodically at the guards, while Rafael and Owen are back-to-back, fighting off attackers of their own.

Malcolm is retreating toward the door, using Elliot as a shield. Fucking coward.

I raise my gun, aiming directly at Malcolm’s chest, and squeeze the trigger. The shot goes wide as a something slams into me from behind. One of Malcolm’s guards has me pinned, and he’s grabbing my arm and twisting until pain shoots up to my shoulder.

“Got her!” he yells, driving his knee into my back. “I’ve got Quinn!”

I twist violently, managing to get my free arm underneath me. The guard is heavy, at least twice my weight, but he’s made the mistake of thinking I’ll go down easy. I’ve spent my life fighting men bigger and stronger than me, and I’ve learned that size isn’t everything.

I slam my elbow backward, aiming for his groin, but only catch his thigh. Still, it’s enough to make him loosen his grip for a split second. I use the moment to roll, bringing my knee up and catching him under the chin.

Blood spurts from where he’s bitten his tongue, spraying across my face in hot droplets. He roars in pain and rage, grabbing for my throat with both hands.

“You’re dead, you little bitch,” he snarls as spit and blood fly from his mouth.

Across the room, I see Killian take a blow to the head that sends him staggering. Nico is pinned against the wall by two guards, while Atlas is still fighting but surrounded by three more. We’re outnumbered and outgunned, and the realization sinks in that we might not make it out of here alive.

Adrenaline surges through my veins, sharpening my senses and fueling my anger. Elliot fucking double-crossed us. I should have known it would be him—he’s got as much reason to hate Malcolm as any of us, but like any true snake, it’s impossible for him to turn against his master.

The guard’s fingers dig into my throat, cutting off my air. Black spots float at the edge of my vision, but the fury inside me won’t let me give up. I drive my thumb into his eye, pushing as hard as I can. He howls and jerks backward, releasing my throat.

I gasp for air, my lungs burning as I scramble backward on the carpet. My gun is gone, knocked away in the initial attack. I need a weapon. Anything.

“I’m going to enjoy watching you die,” the guard growls, blood streaming from his eye socket. He pulls a wicked hunting knife from his belt and grins, looking like something straight out of a horror movie. “Malcolm said I can take my time with you.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, grabbing a heavy glass ashtray from a nearby table and hurling it at his face.

He dodges, but the distraction gives me enough time to kick out at him, and my boot connects solidly with his knee. There’s a sickening crack as his leg bends sideways at an unnatural angle. He screams, collapsing to the floor as the knife clatters beside him.

I lunge for the knife, but another guard is on me before I can reach it. This one is leaner and faster, and his fist connects with my jaw so hard that my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I stagger backwards.

“Quinn!” Nico’s shout cuts through the chaos. He’s fighting like he’s fucking possessed, trying to get to me, but there are too many guards between us.

I spot Malcolm by the door, watching the carnage with a cold smile on his face. His eyes meet mine across the room, and the hatred I see there is matched only by the fury churning in my stomach. This was supposed to be his end, not ours, but I’m not going down without a fucking fight.

The lean guard comes at me again, but I’m ready for him this time.

I dodge left, then drive my elbow into that spot between his ribs with everything I’ve got.

He doubles over, gasping, and I bring my knee up into his face.

The crunch of cartilage is really fucking satisfying, but I don’t have any time to savor it.

I’m running out of energy, and Malcolm’s men keep coming. For every one we take down, it seems like two more appear. The room looks like a bomb went off, with broken furniture, blood, and spent shell casings littering the entire space.

In the brief second I’ve bought myself, I reach for the small burner phone tucked into my bra—the panic button Willow gave me. My fingers close around it just as another guard lunges at me.

His fist connects with my cheekbone, and the impact is so hard I see stars. The phone falls from my hand and clatters across the floor, but not before I’ve managed to activate it. It’s a desperate cry for help, and I don’t even know if it works, but it’s all I have right now.

I didn’t see where the phone landed, and I don’t have time to search for it.

The new guard is joined by another, and both of them manage to grab my arms at the same time and shove me down to my knees.

I kick and strike out at them as much as I can until I land a solid hit to one guard’s groin that doubles him over.

The other guard responds by backhanding me across the face, snapping my head to the side with enough force that I taste blood again.

“Stay down, bitch,” he shouts, twisting my arm behind my back until I cry out.

I try to see what’s happening with my men, desperate to know if they’re still fighting, or at least still alive.

Atlas is on his knees, bleeding from a cut above his eye, with a gun pressed to the back of his head.

Killian is still struggling against two guards, but a third delivers a brutal blow to his kidneys that makes him crumple.

Nico is the last one standing, fighting like a demon, but even he can’t hold out against the odds that are stacked against us.

“That’s enough!” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Restrain them all. I want them alive.”

The guard behind me pulls my other arm back and binds my wrists with a zip tie so tight it cuts into my skin. I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out again, though, and I bite down on my lip until I taste fresh blood.

Around the room, the fighting gradually stops as Malcolm’s men gain full control.

Cassandra is dragged out from behind her cover, and there’s a nasty gash on her forehead that’s streaming blood into her eyes.

Rafael is lying motionless on the floor, but I can see his chest rising and falling—he’s unconscious, but not dead.

Owen is the last to be subdued, cursing and threatening everyone around him as they force him to his knees.

My men are alive, but barely. Each of them is bloody and zip-tied like me. The relief of seeing them still breathing is immediately balanced out by the harsh reality of our situation.

We failed. And Malcolm isn’t known for his mercy.

The panic button was my last hope—but even if Willow and her men received the signal, how will they find us? How will they get past Malcolm’s guards?

Malcolm walks slowly around the room, surveying the carnage with the detached interest of a man inspecting damaged property.

His suit is still somehow immaculate, without a drop of blood or speck of dust marring the expensive fabric.

But then, he hasn’t even had to lift a finger. His men did the dirty work, as always.

My eyes dart to Imogen’s body, still sprawled where she fell, a perfect bullet hole in the center of her forehead. Blood has pooled beneath her head, seeping into the expensive carpet. Her eyes are still open, frozen in that last moment of shock and betrayal.

I liked Imogen. She could be cold and calculating, but there was something honest about her ruthlessness. She didn’t pretend to be anything other than what she was, and she deserved a hell of a lot better than to die at the hands of a snake like Elliot.

“Well, Malcolm,” Elliot says, looking down at me with undisguised satisfaction, “do you still think your wife is warming up to you? Because it looks to me like she’d rather see you dead.”

Malcolm’s face hardens, and the pretense of the sophisticated businessman slips away, revealing the monster I’ve always known he was. His eyes are cold and empty—the eyes of a predator who has caught his prey and is trying to decide the most painful way to kill it.

“I think it’s time I taught my wife a lesson about respect,” he says so quietly it’s almost a whisper. “About loyalty. About the consequences of betrayal.”

He crouches down in front of me and grabs my face with one hand, digging his fingers into my cheeks. I try to jerk away, but the guard behind me is holding me firmly in place, making it impossible to move an inch.

“I tried to be nice,” he says, leaning in until his face is inches from mine.

“I gave you time. I gave you space. I even gave you the resources to rebuild your pathetic little business.” His fingers tighten until I can feel my teeth cutting into the inside of my cheeks.

“And this is how you repay my kindness? By plotting to kill me with my own people?”

The rage in his eyes is terrifying—not because it’s wild or uncontrolled, but because it’s so focused and precise. This isn’t a man who lashes out blindly. This is a man who calculates every ounce of pain he inflicts, then savors it like a fine fucking wine.

“You think you know what pain is?” he continues. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. But you’re going to find out.”

I’ve been in dangerous situations before, and faced death more times than I can count. But something about the clinical detachment in Malcolm’s eyes tells me this is different. This isn’t just about killing me. This is about breaking me first.

I think of Nico, Atlas, and Killian—my men, my husbands, the loves of my life—kneeling nearby, forced to watch but unable to help me. I think of the vows we made to each other, and I’m going to hold on to that perfect memory until the very end.

Whatever Malcolm does to me, I won’t break. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“I didn’t want to believe it when Elliot came to me,” he says, finally releasing my face and standing up.

“When he told me my own wife and Imogen were stirring up a rebellion among the people I’ve treated so well over the years.

” He sighs and straightens his cuffs, and it’s so fucking mundane it seems obscene in the middle of so much blood and violence.

“I thought perhaps he was mistaken. Or jealous.”

I feel a rush of rage as I look over at Elliot.

“I know why you were offered a spot in the Syndicate.” I pause a moment to spit in his direction, both from pure disgust and to clear some of the blood in my mouth.

“The same way we all were. Malcolm took someone from you—someone you loved—and then offered you power as compensation for your loss.”

Elliot’s smile only falters slightly, but it’s enough to tell me I’ve struck a nerve.

“Your mother,” I continue, watching his eyes narrow. “He might as well have killed her himself, and then he offered you a seat at his table. How could you just let that go? How could you side with the man who destroyed your family?”

“Careful, Quinn,” Malcolm warns, but I ignore him, focusing all my hatred on Elliot.

“Or maybe you never really loved her at all,” I say. “Maybe you’re just like him—incapable of actual human feeling. Just another fucking monster wearing a man’s skin.”

Elliot’s face flushes with anger, and his composure cracks for the first time. Good. Let him feel something, even if it’s just impotent rage.

“You think you know me?” he snarls, stepping closer. “You think you understand anything about what I’ve been through? What I’ve had to do?”

“I understand enough,” I reply, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I understand that you’re a coward who chose to lick the boots of the man who ruined your life instead of fighting back.”

The guard behind me tightens his grip, probably expecting Elliot to strike me. But Elliot just laughs, and it’s a hollow, bitter sound that sets my teeth on edge.

“You’re pathetic,” he says, shaking his head. “So righteous. So sure of yourself. And look where it’s gotten you. You’re right about one thing though. Malcolm did offer me a place in the Syndicate after my mother died. But you’re wrong about everything else.”

He steps over Imogen’s body without even glancing down, and comes to stand next to Malcolm like a faithful dog returning to its master.

“I knew from the beginning that you were weak,” he continues. “All of you.” He looks over at Cassandra, Rafael, and Owen before returning to me. “So concerned with avenging your loved ones, as if the dead care what happens after they’re gone.”

“Your own mother.” I shake my head as a fresh wave of disgust threatens to overtake me. “How can you?—”

“I don’t give a shit that my mother died. Sacrifices have to be made on the way to greatness. She was a stepping stone. Nothing more.”

The coldness in his tone is surprising, even after everything else that’s just gone down. This isn’t callousness—this is something deeper. It’s a complete lack of empathy that makes Malcolm’s calculated cruelty seem almost sane by comparison.

“You’re a fucking monster,” I manage to say through gritted teeth.

Elliot smirks. “Maybe. But I’m a monster who will still be breathing tomorrow. Can you say the same?”

I spit at him again now that he’s closer, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction when a bloody glob lands on his expensive shoes. “Go to hell.”

His face contorts with rage, and he moves like he’s going to hit me, but Malcolm catches his arm before his fist can connect.

“Not yet,” Malcolm says. “We have plans for her. For all of them.”

Elliot steps back, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s still going to make me pay for what I’ve just said and done.

“Get them prepared to be taken out of here,” Malcolm orders the guards. “We’re going to the warehouse.”

I look over at my men, hoping to exchange one last meaningful glance, to somehow tell them that I love them, and that I’m sorry. But before I can, I feel a sharp jab in my neck.

“Sweet dreams, Mrs. Mercer,” Malcolm whispers as a cold sensation spreads down my shoulder and back.

I try to fight it, but my vision begins to blur almost immediately. The last thing I see as darkness closes in is Malcolm’s face, smug and triumphant, staring down at me.

Then nothing.