Page 290 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I stand over Malcolm’s body with my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. My knuckles are split open and throbbing, and blood is running down my fingers. Some of it is his. Some of it is mine. I don’t give a shit either way, because the fucker is dead.

Finally fucking dead.

His eyes are still open, staring up at the night sky with that look of surprise frozen on his face. Like he couldn’t believe a woman—the woman he thought he owned—would be the one to end him.

It’s not just him I’m seeing as I look down at his corpse. It’s Ambrose. It’s every one of those Bullet motherfuckers who jumped me. It’s every asshole who ever thought they could break me, use me, or throw me away when they were done.

“You look good like that,” I tell his corpse. “Dead at my feet where you belong.”

Something in my chest loosens—like a knot that’s been pulled so tight for so long I forgot it was even there. I feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe all the way down to my toes. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel a tightness around my lungs or an invisible collar around my throat.

The memory of his hands on me, that fucking ring he forced onto my finger, the way he looked at me like I was his property—it all seems distant now.

Like a nightmare I’ve finally woken up from.

The darkness that’s been dogging my steps since I first set foot in Noctura has lifted, and in its place is something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Peace. Not the soft, gentle kind they talk about in greeting cards. But the hard-won, blood-soaked peace that comes from standing over your enemy’s body and knowing they’ll never hurt anyone again.

I spit on his face, watching as my bloody saliva mixes with the crusted blood around his mouth. “Say hi to the devil for me.”

I think about my father, about how Malcolm manipulated him after my mother’s death—a death that Malcolm orchestrated. I think about how he tried to use me in the same sick fantasy he had about my mother. How he thought he could control me, break me, and make me into something I’m not.

But in the end, I’m still standing. I’m still the leader of Enigma and the Princess of Carnage.

And I’m free.

I take a step back, and suddenly my knees decide they’re fucking done. They buckle beneath me, and the world tilts as I start to go down.

Strong arms catch me before I hit the deck. Nico pulls me against him, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing.

“Easy there, mia cara,” he says. “Maybe take it easy for a bit. You’ve had a long fucking night.”

I laugh, probably sounding borderline hysterical as I look up at his face. One of his eyes is swollen completely shut, the skin around it a mess of purple and black. His lip is split in two places, and there’s a deep gash across his temple that’s still oozing blood.

“I’ll take it easy if you do.”

“Deal.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I can feel his smile against my skin. “As soon as we get off this goddamn boat.”

I lean into him, letting him take my weight. My body is finally registering every hit, every punch, every moment of torture from Elliot and Malcolm. My ribs scream in protest with each breath, and there’s a deep ache in my shoulder from god-only-knows-what.

“I think I might be a little fucked up,” I admit, wincing as I try and fail to stand up straight.

“Join the club,” Nico says, shifting to support me better. “I’m pretty sure Atlas and I both have some broken ribs, and Killian’s shoulder is definitely dislocated. I think we’re all running on pure fucking adrenaline at this point.”

“And rage,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”

He chuckles, then immediately grimaces. “Don’t make me laugh. Fuck… my ribs.”

I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It grounds me in a way nothing else can. After everything we’ve been through—the lies, the secrets, the misunderstandings—we’re all still here. And we’re all still together.

“I should have figured out a way to kill him sooner,” I say, watching as Atlas limps over to check on Killian. “I should have put that fucker in the ground the first day he put his hands on me.”

“Hey,” Nico says, tilting my chin up so I have to look at him. “You did what you had to do to survive. To keep us all alive. And now he’s dead, and we’re not. That’s a win in my book.”

I nod, feeling the truth of his words settle into my bones. We survived. All of us. Battered and broken, but still breathing.

Killian walks across the deck, moving so steadily on his feet that it would be impossible to guess the hell he’s been through if not for his tattered, bloody clothes and the arm that’s dangling at a slightly skewed angle.

He grabs Malcolm’s body by the back of his ruined suit jacket, hefting him up like he’s nothing but a bag of trash.

“Need something to weigh him down,” he mutters.

Nico and Atlas are already moving, searching for something we can use.

After a few minutes of poking around, Atlas yanks open a storage compartment, and Nico nods in satisfaction as he hauls out a thick, heavy looking length of chain.

They join Killian, and in seconds, they’ve wrapped it tight around Malcolm’s limp form.

“Time to join your fucking friends in hell,” Killian grunts to Malcolm’s corpse as he drags it toward the edge of the yacht.

With one powerful motion, he tosses the body overboard. There’s a splash, and then nothing. No last words, no ceremony, no fucking glory for a man who caused so much pain.

“Rot down there, you piece of shit,” Killian says, wiping his hands on his jeans like he’s cleaning off something foul. “The river will wash away whatever’s left when the fish are done with you.”

I watch the ripples spread across the dark water, feeling nothing but satisfaction as Malcolm’s body disappears beneath the surface.

There’s a certain poetic justice to it—the man who lived in luxury, who thought he was above everyone else, ending up as nothing more than food for the bottom-feeders.

“Good riddance,” I mutter under my breath, and Nico nods in agreement.

Atlas is already at the wheel, and somehow manages to fire up the engine even though more than a few of the controls and instruments have been smashed to hell. The yacht rumbles to life beneath our feet, and Nico guides me over to a padded bench, setting me down carefully.

“Hold on,” he says, his good eye scanning my face. “We’re almost home.”

Killian comes over to check on me, but directs his question to Nico as he slowly catalogs every injury on my body. “How’s our girl?”

“Alive,” Nico answers. “Tough as nails, as usual.”

The corners of Killian’s mouth lift in what passes for a smile from him. “We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard, leaving me shaky and light-headed. Every injury I’ve earned tonight is screaming for attention, but I push the pain down. We’re not safe yet.

As we approach the dock, I can see figures moving in the darkness. For one horrible second, I think it’s more of Malcolm’s guards, and I tense, ready for another fight even though I really don’t have anything left to give.

But then I spot a familiar face—Willow. She’s standing at the edge of the dock with her three men, surrounded by what looks like a small army of Carnage and Enigma members. Cassandra and Owen are there too, bloodied but alive.

The yacht bumps against the dock, and Atlas cuts the engine. Killian jumps off to secure the boat while Nico helps me to my feet.

“Are you good to walk?” he asks, his arm still around my waist.

“Yeah.” I nod, even though my legs feel like they’re made of wet noodles. “I’ve got it.”

I make it off the boat, still limping slightly as I step onto the dock. Willow rushes forward, relief washing over her face as she looks me up and down.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, her eyes wide. “You look like hell.”

“You should see the other guy,” I reply with a weak smile. “Oh wait, you can’t. He’s fish food now.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I was worried we were too late.”

“How did you find us?” I ask, glancing around at the aftermath of what must have been one hell of a fight. There are bodies scattered around—Malcolm’s guards, I’m guessing. Some of our people are injured too, being tended to by others.

“We got your distress signal,” Vic says, stepping forward. He’s got a nasty cut above his eye, but he looks steady on his feet. “When you hit that panic button, it sent your location to my phone.”

“But you were already gone by the time we got there,” Willow adds. “Vic hacked into every camera he could find in a five-mile radius, trying to track where they’d taken you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Vic says with a grimace. “But I finally got a hit on some traffic cams that showed a convoy of black SUVs heading this way. Once we knew the general area, it was just a matter of following the trail of assholes with guns.”

“By the time we found the place, it was crawling with Malcolm’s men,” Willow continues. “We rounded up everyone we could—Carnage, Enigma, anyone who was willing to fight. Then we went in hard and fast.”

I glance over at the members of Carnage and Enigma who came to our rescue. They’re standing together, not as separate gangs anymore, but as a unified force. Some are helping the wounded, others are keeping watch, all of them looking like they’ve been through hell and back.

“Did we lose any?” I ask, my throat tight.

“Three,” Cassandra says, stepping forward. Her elegant suit is torn and stained with blood, but she’s carrying herself with the same poise and grace as always. “One from Enigma, two from Carnage.”

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of those losses. Three people who died because they followed me into this fight. Three families that will never be whole again.