Page 292 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

By the time we make it back to the safe house, I’m barely conscious. The world fades in and out, a blur of motion and voices and strong but gentle hands. I remember being carried inside, Nico’s voice giving orders, Atlas arguing with Killian about who needs medical attention first.

“Her,” I hear Killian insist. “Take care of her first.”

I force my eyes open, finding the strength to say, “No. You first. All of you.” When they try to argue, I add, “I can fucking wait. That bullet needs to come out of your shoulder, and Nico and Atlas need their ribs wrapped.”

I’m in no fucking shape to argue, and I see the resignation on their faces. They know I’m right, even if they don’t like it.

Kendrick helps patch them up—first with Killian on a kitchen chair, cutting away his shirt and digging the bullet out of his shoulder with what looks like a pair of sterilized tweezers.

Killian doesn’t make a sound, just stares straight ahead with that too-calm, completely controlled stillness that would unnerve anyone who doesn’t know him like we do.

While Kendrick is working on Killian, Atlas helps Nico get his ribs wrapped.

There isn’t a lot that can be done for broken ribs, but the binding will help with the pain and prevent them from getting worse.

When he’s finished, they swap places. Both of them are covered in swollen cuts and dark bruises, but it doesn’t look like anything that won’t heal with some time and rest.

I sit on the couch, forcing myself to stay awake until they’re all taken care of. Kendrick checks me over briefly, saying I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs too, but no internal bleeding that he can detect.

When he’s done patching everyone up, Kendrick leaves with a promise to check in tomorrow. The door closes behind him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s just us. Just me and my men.

Once they’ve all had a chance to clean up, it’s finally my turn.

“Shower,” I say, pushing myself up from the couch. “I need to get this blood off me.”

Atlas steps forward, concern etched on his face. “Let me help you.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got it. You all need to rest.”

“Quinn—” Nico starts, but I cut him off.

“I’m fine,” I insist, even though I’m anything but. “I just need to wash away this day.”

I make my way to the bathroom, stripping off my ruined clothes and leaving them in a heap on the floor. The shower hisses to life, steam filling the small space as I step under the spray.

The hot water hits my battered body, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Every cut, every bruise, every scrape stings under the assault, but I don’t turn down the temperature. I need this—the pain is a reminder that I’m alive. That we all made it.

I watch as the water at my feet turns red, then pink, then clear as Malcolm’s blood, Elliot’s blood, and my own wash away down the drain. If only the memories could be scrubbed away so easily.

I close my eyes and let the water pour over me, savoring the sensation of being clean. There’s a lightness in my chest, a sense of peace that I haven’t felt in a long damn time. Not since before my father died. Maybe not even then.

For the first time in forever, there’s no target on my back. No Malcolm or Ambrose breathing down my neck, no Syndicate to appease, no one manipulating me or the people I care about. Just me and my men, alive and together.

I don’t know how long I stand there, letting the water wash away the nightmare of the past few weeks, but eventually the water starts to cool. I shut it off reluctantly and step out into the steamy bathroom to dry myself.

A few minutes later, I make my way down the hall to my bedroom. The house is quiet, almost uncomfortably quiet after the chaos of the night. No gunshots, no screams, no threats. Just the soft hum of the heater and the distant sound of the city outside.

I pause at my bedroom door, listening for any sign that my men are still awake. Nothing. I push the door open slowly, careful not to make too much noise.

The sight that greets me makes my heart do a slow roll in my chest. All three of them are sprawled across my bed, dead to the world. They must have come in here to wait for me and finally given in to their exhaustion.

Nico is closest to the door, lying on his back with one arm flung over his head while the other rests across his bandaged torso. His face is relaxed in sleep, and even with his eye swollen shut and his lip split, he’s still one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen.

Atlas is next to him, curled on his side and facing the door like he’s still on guard even in his sleep. One hand is under his pillow and the other is stretched out toward the center of the bed. Probably looking for me, even in his dreams.

Killian is on the far side, flat on his back like Nico, but with both arms at his sides.

His injured shoulder is bandaged, and there’s a faint spot of blood seeping through the white gauze.

His face is turned toward the center of the bed, and even in sleep, there’s an intensity in his handsome features that never quite goes away.

They’ve left a space in the middle of the bed. A space just big enough for me.

I drop my towel, too tired to bother with clothes, and carefully climb onto the bed. The mattress dips slightly under my weight, but none of them wake. They’re that exhausted, that trusting in their safety here with me.

As I settle into the center of the bed, something shifts. Without waking, all three men subtly move toward me.

I smile, feeling a sense of rightness that I’ve never experienced before. This is where I belong. Not just with one of them, but with all three. They each fill a different need and heal a different part of me—all while challenging me in different ways.

Together, they make me whole in a way I never thought possible.

A soft thump at the foot of the bed signals the arrival of our final family member. The cat—Princess—pads up the blanket, kneading the fabric with small paws before settling into a ball at my feet.

I close my eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally take me.

The next few days blend together in a haze of sleep, food, and the sweet fucking relief of not having anyone actively trying to kill us.

We’re all moving like old people, wincing with every step and groaning when we sit or stand.

The safe house has become our recovery ward, with a collection of bandages, antiseptic, and painkillers scattered across every surface.

We spend most of our time sprawled on the couch together, watching shitty TV and trading barbs about each other’s injuries. But beneath the lazy domesticity, our minds are working. Planning. Figuring out what happens next.

“Where the fuck are we going to live?” Atlas asks on the third day, wincing as he shifts on the couch. “We can’t stay in this shitty little house forever.”

It’s a good question. One we’ve been dancing around because it opens the door to a hundred others. What are we going to do now? Do we continue to rebuild Enigma and Carnage? Do we even want to?

“We could rent a place,” Nico suggests, his fingers absently stroking my hair as I rest my head in his lap. “Something bigger than this.”

I smile, closing my eyes as I consider the possibility. A real home like the one I had—the one we shared before it burned down. Not a temporary hideout or a place we’re forced to stay in. Somewhere that’s ours by choice.

“We’ll have to figure something out soon,” I say. “But maybe not today. I’ve been sort of enjoying not really stressing about shit these past few days.”

The conversation shifts to other logistics—what to do about the remnants of our gangs, how to merge them, whether to keep our current operations running or try something else entirely. For the first time in our lives, we have options.

Word trickles in from the streets over the next few days. Our people—the ones loyal to Enigma and Carnage—have been keeping their ears to the ground and feeding us information about the aftermath of our little coup.

Kendrick stops by with bandages, food, and the latest updates. “Malcolm’s organization is eating itself alive,” he tells us, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table. “His lieutenants are fighting over territory, clients, even his fucking furniture.”

I snort, then wince as the movement jars my ribs. “It sounds like they’re a bunch of vultures circling the corpse.”

“Exactly.” Kendrick nods. “And Elliot’s operation isn’t doing any better. Without him giving orders, his human trafficking network is falling apart. The cops have already raided three of his warehouses.”

“Good,” Atlas says, grimacing. “Let that shit burn to the ground.”

Nobody is going to mourn Elliot or his operation. The world is better off without both.

Later in the evening, Hudson stops by with more news. He’s got a fresh scar across his jaw from the fight at Elliot’s warehouse, but he wears it like a badge of honor.

“Nobody seems to be looking for payback,” he tells us, accepting a beer from Nico. “Not for Malcolm, not for Elliot. Their people are too busy grabbing what they can for themselves.”

“What about the Dark Lotus Syndicate?” I ask, thinking of Cassandra and Owen. “Any word on what’s happening there?”

Hudson shrugs. “Word is they’re dissolving it and going their separate ways, but with some kind of non-aggression pact in place. There won’t be any more forced alliances or blood debts.”

I nod, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. The Syndicate is done, and Malcolm’s sick legacy has ended with him.

“And no one’s gunning for us?” Killian asks. “No leftover loyalists with a hard-on for revenge?”

“Nah,” Hudson says, taking a pull from his beer. “That’s the thing about guys like Malcolm and Elliot. They don’t inspire loyalty—they demand it. They surround themselves with people who work for them out of fear or ambition, not love. When they die, no one gives a shit.”