Page 289 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I collapse onto my elbows, rubbing my throat as I gulp in desperate breaths of air. The aftermath of adrenaline floods my system, making my arms and legs tremble and my vision blur at the edges.

My men look bruised and battered and deadly as fuck. Even after being tortured and beaten, they’re still ready to fight. Ready to kill.

In other circumstances, it might be enough to make me feel a pang of compassion for Malcolm—knowing that he has to go up against the four of us together.

But under these circumstances? Here, on this yacht that was bought and paid for by untold suffering that he caused?

Fuck him and everything he stands for. I’m looking forward to sending this bastard straight to hell.

Atlas reaches Malcolm first, grabbing him by his uninjured arm and hauling him to his knees. Malcolm tries to struggle, but Atlas twists his arm behind his back at an angle that makes him howl.

“Don’t fucking move,” Atlas growls.

Nico crouches beside me. One of his eyes is swollen almost all the way shut, but the other one is scanning my face, my neck, my body, taking in every injury and silently promising to make that son of a bitch pay for each one.

“You came.” I offer a faint smile that makes my whole face hurt, but it’s worth it.

“Of course we did.” He reaches out to dab at my bloodied lip with his thumb. “You needed us.”

It’s such a simple statement, but I can feel it in my heart. As if there was never any possibility that they wouldn’t come, wouldn’t follow me, wouldn’t fight through hell itself to reach me.

Killian walks over to give me his hand. “Can you stand?”

I nod, taking his hand and letting him pull me to my feet. I’m not sure if the whole world is swaying beneath me or if it’s just the yacht, drifting aimlessly on the dark water without its engines.

“How did you find me?” I ask, leaning into Killian’s solid warmth as my legs threaten to give out.

“Willow helped us find the exit,” Nico says, looking over and locking onto Malcolm with murderous intensity. “We saw this big-ass yacht pulling away from the dock. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who the captain was.”

“So you swam.” I shake my head in disbelief, looking at their soaked clothes and the open wounds that are going to need a thorough cleaning after their dip in the river.

“I told you before,” Killian shrugs with a casual nonchalance that’s at odds with everything I know about him. “I’d burn down the world for you. A little swim is nothing.”

Across the deck, Malcolm makes another attempt to break free from Atlas’s hold. Atlas responds by shoving his thumb into the bullet hole in Malcolm’s shoulder, making him scream as fresh blood sprays across the polished deck.

“Oops,” Atlas deadpans. “I guess you’d better not try that bullshit again.”

Malcolm’s expensive suit is torn and bloody, and his slicked-back hair is sticking up in every direction. But when he raises his face to look at me, his eyes are still full of that same cold hatred.

“If it had just been me and you,” he snarls with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, “I would’ve fucking killed you. I would’ve put you in the ground right next to your whore mother.”

Nico tenses beside me, taking a half-step forward before I place a hand on his chest, stopping him. Killian’s hand tightens on my shoulder, and I can feel the tremor of rage running through him.

I could let them at him. Could watch as they tear Malcolm apart piece by piece, exacting payment for every bruise on my skin, every second of fear, every nightmare he’s given me.

But that would be too easy for him. Too quick.

I step forward, feeling steadier now with my men at my back.

“You know what your mistake was, Malcolm?” I ask, stepping closer to where he kneels in Atlas’s grip.

“All this time, you thought you could control her. You thought you could live out some kind of old, sick fantasy by controlling me. But my mother was never your whore, and you were never strong enough to break me.”

I stop just out of his reach, looking down at the pathetic creature he’s been reduced to.

“I’m like my father,” I continue. “And I learned from the best how to lead, how to fight, and how to surround myself with the right people.” I smile, feeling Killian and Nico flanking me without even having to look. “That’s why you’ll always lose. Because I’m never alone.”

Malcolm’s face contorts with impotent rage as he looks from me to my men.

“You think these thugs will save you?” He’s doing his best to keep up the smug, condescending bullshit, but his own desperation is making his voice crack. “How many times have they put you in harm’s way? How many times have you almost died because of them?”

“These ‘thugs’ are my Princes. And we’re all still alive. We’re all still standing together.”

“And we’ll always be together,” Nico growls, backing me up completely without a second of hesitation.

Malcolm’s eyes widen slightly, and I can see the flicker of doubt. For the first time, I think he truly understands what he’s up against. Not just me, not just three men, but something stronger and more powerful than any of us could be alone.

We have something he’s never experienced before—a bond built by shared pain and unbreakable trust.

We’re a family.

But even now, he can’t help but taunt me. “So that’s it? You’re going to have your attack dogs finish the job? Let them kill me while you watch? Just like your mother—too weak to do what needs to be done.”

Maybe he thinks I’ll fly into a rage and somehow give him an advantage. Maybe he thinks one of my men really will get tired of his fucking mouth and snap his neck like a twig.

God, he really hasn’t been paying attention. And I can kill him with absolutely no remorse, knowing he’ll never change. He’ll never be anything but a monster.

Atlas chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he says, still holding Malcolm’s arm like a vise. “We’re not going to kill you.”

I meet Atlas’s gaze, understanding passing between us without a word needed. He nods once, a question in his eyes that I answer with my own nod.

“We’re going to watch our wife do it,” he finishes, releasing his hold on Malcolm and stepping back.

I step forward and roll my shoulders even though every muscle in my body is aching and spent.

Every inch of me hurts—from Elliot’s torture, from the fight, from the weeks of walking on eggshells in Malcolm’s house.

My ribs ache with each breath, my throat burns from where he tried to choke the life from me, and I’m just fucking exhausted.

But this—this is what I need. This is what I’ve needed since the moment I learned what he did to my mother. Since he forced that ring onto my finger and called me his wife.

Malcolm staggers to his feet, swaying slightly as he reaches up to cradle his shoulder for a moment before thinking better of it and dropping his hand back to his side. His eyes dart to the edge of the yacht, and I can see the wheels turning in his pathetic, cowardly brain.

“Don’t even think about it,” Killian warns, clearly reading his intentions. “The only way you’re going in that water is as a corpse.”

Malcolm’s face hardens, and he raises his fists.

He throws the first punch—a wild, desperate swing that I could dodge in my sleep.

I step inside his reach, driving my fist into his bullet wound.

He howls, staggering back, but I don’t let up.

I follow, pressing my advantage as he retreats across the deck.

“You’re nothing without your guards,” I tell him, blocking his next pathetic attempt to hit me. “Nothing without your money. Nothing without your fucking Syndicate lackeys.”

He tries to grab me, but I’m faster, slipping around him and landing a solid kick to the back of his knee. He collapses to one knee, and I circle around to face him again.

“You were right about one thing, though,” I continue, adrenaline singing through my veins as I advance on him. “I’m too fucking stubborn to die because of a coward like you.”

I punch him as hard as I can, square in the face, feeling the satisfied crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles as his head whips to the side.

“That’s for my mother,” I snarl as blood sprays from his broken nose.

He tries to stand, but I knock him back down with another punch that connects with his jaw.

“For my father, who you manipulated and betrayed.”

Each word, each punch, feels like a weight lifting from my chest. I hit him again, harder this time, watching as his eye begins to swell shut.

“For my uncle, who should’ve never died in that prison cell.”

Malcolm spits blood onto the deck, struggling to stay upright as I circle him. “You stupid bitch,” he slurs through broken teeth. “You think this changes anything? You think this makes you strong?”

“No.” I land another punch that sends him sprawling. “This just makes you dead.”

I advance on him as he crawls backward, leaving a trail of blood on the polished wood. His expensive suit is in tatters, his face a mess of blood and swelling tissue.

“For my gang,” I say, kicking him hard in the ribs. “For every person you’ve ever used and abused.”

He coughs, and blood bubbles from his lips as he curls into himself. “You can’t—you don’t understand?—”

“For my men,” I cut him off, grabbing a fistful of his hair and hauling his head back to make him look at me. “For every second they spent in your torture chamber.”

His eyes find mine, and for the first time, I see real fear there. The realization that this is the end—that all his power, all his connections, and all his fucking money can’t save him now.

I twist the wedding ring off my finger and force his jaw open, taking a second to savor this moment before I shove the ring so deep into his mouth that he starts to choke and gag.

“And this,” I whisper, leaning in close so he can’t miss a single word, “is for me.”

I slam my fist into his throat with every ounce of strength I have left. I feel the ring crush his windpipe, collapsing his trachea as the diamond cuts through soft tissue.

His eyes bulge and his hands fly to his throat as he tries desperately to breathe. He falls backward, his body convulsing as he suffocates on the symbol of his control over me.

I stand over him, watching as the life drains from his eyes. His legs kick frantically, fingers clawing at his throat as he makes wet, desperate gurgling sounds. And then, finally, he goes still.