Page 282 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I’m not sure how long I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness, but feelings and sensations hit me in bits and pieces. There’s the rough sway of movement. The bite of zip ties cutting into my wrists. The dull throb on the side of my neck where Malcolm injected the drugs.

I force my heavy eyelids open for a moment, but it’s like looking through a fishbowl as I try to make out my surroundings. We’re moving again, so I must be in a vehicle. A van? A truck? Something with a metal interior.

My body is slumped against something—no, someone. I try to turn my head, but my muscles won’t fully cooperate. Still, I manage to catch a glimpse of dark hair. Nico? Atlas? I can’t tell. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and I don’t dare risk trying to make any noise.

The vehicle hits a pothole, and my head bounces against the hard metal wall. The jolt of pain is enough to send me back into the waiting darkness.

I wake up again to the sensation of being carried. My body is limp, and my head is resting against someone’s chest. I catch the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne and I know it’s not one of my men. Which means it has to be one of Malcolm’s guards.

“This one’s starting to wake up,” a rough voice says above me.

“Just get her inside,” another voice answers. “Mercer wants them all secured before they’re fully conscious.”

I try to struggle, but my muscles still won’t respond. My arms and legs are dead weight, and even keeping my eyes open takes more strength than I have in me right now.

Through nearly-closed eyes, I catch glances of my surroundings. There’s a dimly lit hallway and concrete walls. I can hear the sound of several sets of footsteps around me. Then there’s the creak of a heavy door, a rush of cooler air, and the distinct smell of dampness.

Someone else says, “Put her in cell three,” and that’s all I hear before my eyes fall fully closed again.

The next time I wake up, my mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking on a dirty penny. That’s the first solid thought that forms in my head. The second is that I’m lying on cold concrete, and everything fucking hurts.

I force my eyes open as far as I can, blinking against the dim light. I’m in some kind of cage with metal bars on all sides, and the space is maybe six feet by eight feet, just big enough for me to lie down or pace in a tight circle.

I push myself into a sitting position, but the movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through me that almost forces me back down.

I swallow hard against the urge to vomit, then focus on steadying my breathing until the worst of it passes.

Whatever they drugged me with is obviously still working its way through my system.

As my vision clears, I’m able to take in more of my surroundings.

The walls are rough concrete, and the ceiling is low with exposed pipes and a few bare bulbs providing minimal light.

The air is cold and damp, and it’s musty enough in here to tell me that this space hasn’t been actively used in a while.

I keep scanning the room, and my heart stutters. There are other cages arranged in a loose circle, and they’re all occupied.

Cassandra is slumped against the bars of the cage to my right, and I can see that her platinum hair is matted with dried blood from the gash on her forehead.

Rafael is in the cage next to hers, still unconscious.

Owen is across the room, moving slowly and grunting like he’s beginning to regain consciousness. And then I see my men.

“Fuck.” I shudder at the stabbing pain in my heart as my eyes find each of them in separate cage.

Malcolm has made sure to keep us apart this time.

I crawl to the side of my cage closest to them, ignoring the pounding in my head and the churning in my stomach.

Atlas is directly across from me, and his face is partially covered in dried blood from a deep cut near his right eye.

His hands are curled around the bars of his cage, and his knuckles are raw and split.

To his left is Nico, sporting a huge bruise that runs from his cheekbone up to his hairline, turning purple and blue against his skin. His lip is busted open and swollen to almost twice its normal size.

Killian is in the cell on the other side of Nico, and I can tell he has several cuts along his jawline. His shirt is ripped and stained with blood—probably as much from Malcolm’s guards as his own—and I can see through the tattered fabric that his ribs are bruised as well.

They fought like hell. We all did.

The sight of them makes my chest ache. This is my fault. They wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for me. They wouldn’t have been caught in Malcolm’s trap if they hadn’t agreed to help me take him down.

I know they wouldn’t have ever let me face Malcolm alone, but seeing them caged and bleeding is too much for me to handle, and the guilt is overwhelming.

“Quinn,” Atlas’s voice is rough but steady. His eyes find mine across the space between our cages. “Are you okay?”

I almost smile, because of course he’s worried about me first and foremost. Still, nothing about this situation is okay. We’re trapped in cages in some kind of warehouse or basement with Malcolm and Elliot planning god knows what for us, and he’s asking if I’m okay.

“I’m alive,” is all I manage to say. And then, because I need to know, “Are you?”

“Takes more than a few of Malcolm’s goons to put me down for good,” he says, but I can see the stiffness in his movements as he shifts position. He’s hurting worse than he’s letting on.

Nico’s eyes flutter open, and he slowly shakes his head as he looks over at me. “Quinn,” he says, and just my name on his lips makes my heart clench. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

Killian is the last to stir, but his eyes snap open with sudden alertness, immediately scanning the room with the kind of predatory focus that I’ve come to expect from him.

When his eyes land on me, something in his expression shifts—relief, maybe, or the closest thing to it that Killian is capable of showing.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, and I know he’s looking for injuries beyond the obvious bruising on my face from the fight.

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “Just drugged.”

“Same,” Nico nods, rubbing at his neck. “Whatever they gave us was strong.”

“Malcolm wouldn’t want to risk any of us being conscious while they brought us here,” Atlas says. “Not after what happened at the hookah bar.”

The memory of the ambush flashes through my mind—Elliot shooting Imogen in the head, Malcolm’s guards flooding in, and the brutal fight that followed. Then the fear that my men might be killed right in front of me.

“I thought they might just kill us there,” I admit, swallowing hard.

Nico shakes his head. “Malcolm is gonna make us fucking suffer after what we tried to do.”

The brutal honesty of his words sends a chill down my spine, because I know he’s right. This isn’t going to end quickly or painlessly.

A groan from the other side of the room draws my attention. Owen is awake now, pushing himself up to his knees and looking around with wild eyes.

“What the fuck?” he groans, shaking his head as if to clear it. He runs his hands along the bars of his cage, testing them. “Goddammit.”

One by one, the others start to wake as well. Cassandra shifts, wincing as she touches the dried blood on her forehead. Rafael’s eyes open slowly, his usual alertness dulled by the lingering drugs in his system.

“Everyone check in,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. It feels important that we all know who made it here alive. “Cassandra?”

“I’m here,” she says. “But I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Rafael?”

He grunts an acknowledgment, probably not quite ready for full sentences yet.

Owen ignores my attempt at a roll call, instead pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the bars of his cage. He shakes them until the metal starts rattling, but it doesn’t give even a fraction of an inch.

“Let us the fuck out!” he shouts. “Malcolm, you fucking psychopath!”

“That’s not helping,” Cassandra snaps at him.

Owen ignores her, continuing to rattle the bars and yell. His panic is contagious, and I feel my own heart rate pick up. Where the hell are we? Does anyone know we’re here? Is there any chance someone might come to help us, or are we all just waiting to die?

But I can’t let them see me panic. Not when my men are watching and staying calm even though their whole world is falling apart right alongside mine. Not when we need clear heads if we’re going to have any chance of survival.

“Owen,” I hiss. “Enough. You’re wasting energy you’ll need to conserve.”

He stops shouting, but there’s no mistaking the rage in his glare when he turns to me.

“Don’t you fucking tell me what to do,” he growls and points an accusing finger at me through the bars. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you.”

“Quinn isn’t the only one who—” Cassandra starts to say, but he isn’t paying any attention to her.

“You,” he interrupts. “You came into the Dark Lotus Syndicate and started rocking the fucking boat when you should’ve kept your head down and minded your own damn business. We had everything under control until you showed up and started stirring shit.”

“That’s bullshit,” Atlas cuts in. “Malcolm is a fucking parasite. He’s been using all of you for years.”

But he’s too full of fear and anger to listen to reason. “I should never have fucking trusted any of you. And Elliot—that backstabbing motherfucker. He was just entrapping us, just fucking us over so he could reap the benefits by being in Malcolm’s good graces.”

His words sting because there’s a kernel of truth in them. If I’d just suffered through being Malcolm’s wife, if I hadn’t tried to fight back, none of them would be here right now. But that doesn’t mean I was wrong to try.

“You agreed to help because you hated Malcolm too,” I remind him. “We all did. Don’t act like I forced you into anything.”