Page 291 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

“We got most of the guards,” Owen adds. There’s a deep cut across his cheek that’s going to leave one hell of a scar. “A few ran when they realized Malcolm wasn’t coming back. The rest are dead or too fucked up to cause any more trouble.”

I nod, taking it all in.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t get here faster,” Willow says, reaching out to touch my arm. “We came as soon as we could.”

Something wells up inside me—something warm and unfamiliar that tightens my throat and burns behind my eyes. Before I can think about it too much, I step forward and pull Willow into a tight hug, surprising both of us.

“Thank you,” I say, holding on to this woman who has somehow become a solid, trusted friend when I wasn’t looking. “For coming for us. For helping.”

She hugs me back, careful of my injuries. “That’s what friends do, right?”

I pull back just far enough to look her in the eye. “Anytime you need us—anytime you or your men are in trouble—we’ll be there. You call, we come. No questions asked.”

I feel my men step up behind me, a solid wall of strength and protection that I know extends to Willow now too. We’re a family—fucked up and scarred and stronger for it. And our family just got a little bigger.

Willow draws back from our hug, a small smile playing on her face as she shoves her blood-spattered hands in her pockets. Her knuckles are raw and split, evidence that she didn’t just organize this rescue. She fought for it.

“We’re just glad we could help,” she says, glancing over at her men who are keeping a watchful eye on the perimeter. “Is it over now? What you were dealing with when you came to visit…”

I think back to that day and everything I’ve been through in these past weeks and months—hell, everything that’s happened since my father tattooed that mark on me. “Yeah,” I nod, feeling the weight of the words. “It’s fucking over.”

“Good.” Willow’s voice is firm. “It seems like everyone got what they deserved in the end.”

Behind her, the Voronin brothers—Malice, Victor, and Ransom—are talking with my men.

There’s no backslapping or emotional bullshit, just a quiet exchange of nods and words too low for me to hear.

But I can see the respect in their body language, and the acknowledgment of what was risked and sacrificed.

These men, who barely know each other, fought side by side tonight. They bled and killed for each other. That forms a bond that doesn’t need words or grand gestures.

Across the dock, I can see Cassandra organizing the removal of bodies, her voice carrying over the chaos with surprising authority. Owen is helping one of the injured Enigma members to a waiting car, his face set in grim lines.

Willow checks her watch, grimacing slightly. “We should get back. We left Dayana with a sitter, and it’s way past her bedtime.”

I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “You’ve got a fucking body count in double digits tonight, and you’re worried about your baby’s sleep schedule?”

She grins, not a hint of apology in her expression. “Priorities, Quinn. You should’ve seen Ransom’s face when I told him why we had to find a babysitter tonight at the last minute.”

I glance over at the Voronin brothers and then turn back to Willow with a smile. “Domesticity looks good on you guys. In a weird, murder-family kind of way.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says, and I believe her. She turns to her men, giving them a nod. “We should get out of here. Dayana’s probably giving the sitter hell by now.”

As they start to leave, I call out, “Willow!”

She turns back with her eyebrow raised in question.

“Thank you,” I say again, because it doesn’t seem enough the first time. “For… well, everything.”

“Don’t go soft on me now,” she says with a smirk, but I can see she understands what I’m trying to say.

After they leave, I turn my attention to the members of Carnage and Enigma who came to our rescue.

I recognize most of them, but I also see a few new faces who must have been recruited while I was stuck living with Malcolm.

Each of them has the same exhausted, determined look, and I’m not even sure how to put my gratitude into words.

“Thank you,” I say simply, raising my voice enough to carry across the dock. “Every single one of you who came tonight. You didn’t have to, but you did. I won’t forget that. We won’t forget it.”

There are nods of acknowledgment, a few muttered “no problems” and “of course,” but no one makes a big deal of it. These aren’t people who need grand speeches or emotional declarations. They understand loyalty. They understand family.

Before we can leave, I need to have one more conversation. I make my way over to where Owen and Cassandra are standing, and I can see up close that their faces are drawn with exhaustion and grief.

“Hey,” I say, not sure how to start. When I first met these people, I didn’t trust them as far as I could throw them. Now we’ve been through hell together, and that changes things in ways I’m still trying to figure out.

Cassandra gives me a nod. “Glad to see you’re still standing.”

“Barely,” I admit, swaying slightly on my feet. “Look, I just wanted to say thanks. For fighting with us. For not selling us out like that asshole Elliot did.”

Owen’s face darkens at the mention of Elliot. “Fuck him for killing Imogen in cold blood. Right in front of all of us.”

I wince, remembering how it happened. No warning, no hesitation. He could’ve shot any of us in that moment just as easily.

“I’m sorry about Imogen,” I tell him, meaning it. “She was a good person. Better than she pretended to be.”

Owen glances at Cassandra, and something passes between them that I can’t quite read. “She was right,” he says finally. “Imogen wouldn’t have done any of this if she didn’t believe in it. She wouldn’t be dead now if she wasn’t convinced in her heart that it was worth dying for.”

“And now she’s free,” Cassandra adds softly. “Just like we are.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. In her own way, Imogen was the first to take a real risk by helping me, by believing that we could take Malcolm down. And she paid the price for that belief with her life.

By the time we finish our conversation, I’m barely staying upright. The adrenaline that’s been keeping me going is completely gone, and every injury, every bruise, every cut is screaming for attention.

My vision blurs around the edges as I take a step toward where my men are waiting. Nico is at my side in an instant, his arm sliding around my waist to support me.

“Whoa,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even as I lean heavily against him. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” Atlas says, coming up on my other side. “You’re about to pass out.”

I want to argue, but the world is spinning too much for me to form a coherent thought. I feel myself being lifted, and suddenly I’m in Atlas’s arms, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.

“Don’t fight it,” he says, his voice rumbling through me. “Just rest.”

I let my head fall against his shoulder, too exhausted to protest. The last thing I see before my eyes close is the worried faces of my men looking down at me.

I drift in and out of consciousness as we make our way to the waiting vehicles. I vaguely register being placed in the back seat of an SUV, my head pillowed on someone’s lap. Gentle fingers stroke through my hair, and I hear Nico’s voice, low and soothing.

“We’re going home, mia cara. Just hold on a little longer.”

The vehicle moves with a rocking motion that sends me deeper into the haze of exhaustion and pain. I feel safe, surrounded by my men, by their warmth and their protection.

“Did we really win?” I ask, my voice sounding strangely distant to my own ears. “Is it really over?”

“We won,” Nico says as his hand finds mine and gives a gentle squeeze. “Malcolm is dead. Elliot is dead. The Syndicate has been disbanded. It’s over.”

I nod, letting his words sink in. We did it. We survived. We’re free.