Page 34 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

I’m woken by a soft grumbling in my stomach, and I blink blearily as I gaze around the room. It’s late at night, the room quiet and fully dark, and I realize with a start that I’m not alone on the tangled sheets.

There’s the warm line of a body pressed against mine, which means Nico is still here. In my bed.

He clearly fell asleep just like I did, worn out after the marathon round of sex we had.

My stomach flips over a little at the thought that we’ve been sharing a bed like this for several hours. It’s different when it’s just fucking—even though that was supposed to be off limits too. But at least that served a purpose.

This is just… sleeping.

He’s naked, the hard lines of his body contoured by the dim light coming in through the window. Just like I did when I slipped into his room on our wedding night, I find myself studying his features, as if they’ll give me some insight into this hard-edged man while his guard is down.

Part of me is shocked that he was willing to fall asleep beside me after I woke him up with a knife against his throat—but I guess the same question goes for me too.

I’ve been sleeping with my door locked, but tonight, I somehow managed to fall into a peaceful and deep sleep lying side by side with my enemy.

My stomach lets out another loud rumble, and I grimace, putting a hand over it and turning away from Nico so that he won’t catch me looking at him if the sound wakes him up.

But he doesn’t stir, his breathing staying smooth and even, and after a moment, I slide out of bed and pad silently across floor. I tug on a pair of pants and a comfortable tank top, then throw one more glance over my shoulder at Nico before I slip out of the room.

I never ate dinner, and there’s zero chance my body will let me go back to sleep until I get some food in my stomach.

Dragging my fingers through my hair to untangle some of the knots in it, I head quietly down the stairs. There’s a dim light emanating from the living room, and when I reach the bottom landing, I freeze.

Atlas is still awake.

He’s in the living room, his head tilted to one side as he examines the contents of a bookshelf that’s set against the wall beside the TV. He looks over at me, his face illuminated by the flickering glow of the TV, where some action movie is playing with the volume down.

“I didn’t take you for a Twilight City Chronicles fan,” he says, gesturing to the bookshelf.

I blink, clearing my throat. After basically fleeing the kitchen earlier, I wasn’t prepared to come face to face with Atlas again tonight. I figured everyone would be asleep by now, and I’d have until morning before I would have to deal with seeing him again.

“I used to read it all the time when I was younger,” I say stiffly, jerking my chin toward the row of graphic novels on the bookshelf. “My dad got me hooked on it.”

Atlas nods. Silence falls between us for a moment, and I can feel tension thickening the air again like it did in the kitchen.

I know he probably heard me and Nico upstairs, just like he did the first time we fucked, and I cross my arms over my chest as I silently pray that the part where I accidentally moaned his name out loud was too low for him to pick up.

Does he have any idea what Nico said to me in response? Did he hear that part?

Heat creeps up my cheeks at the memory of Nico offering to call Atlas upstairs to join us.

Have they done that before? Shared women between them?

The warmth creeping through me burns hotter, spreading like wildfire, and I startle in surprise as my stomach growls again. I wrench my gaze away from Atlas’s and start to move toward the kitchen.

“I cleaned up the pan with the burnt vegetables,” he says, stopping me in my tracks. When I turn to look at him over my shoulder, he adds, “Since I got the impression you weren’t coming back down anytime soon. Seemed like you were… a little busy.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean to leave it like that, I just—” I break off, because I can’t seem to come up with a single good way to end that sentence. “I’ll just have leftover pizza.”

He shakes his head. “I cooked new vegetables and finished cooking the pasta. It’s all in a container in the fridge.”

That takes me aback. At first, I figure he must mean that he cooked it for himself and put some leftovers in the fridge—but he was already eating dinner when I started to make mine, so that wouldn’t really make sense. Which means… he cooked it for me.

Which makes even less sense.

“Um, okay.” I nod, unsure how to respond. “Thanks.”

I turn away from him again and stride into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door. Just like Atlas said, there’s a full Tupperware container of pasta and vegetables, and when I open it up and scoop some into a bowl, the smell of onion and several spices hits my nose.

I cross my arms as I heat up the pasta, drumming my fingers against my bicep until the microwave beeps.

As I pull out the bowl, I glance around. I’m tempted to just sit in the darkened kitchen to wolf down the food, but that would feel too much like hiding—and I hate hiding, especially in my own damn house. So I grab a fork and head back out into the living room.

Atlas is still there, and he watches as I sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me.

My nipples harden a little in awareness of his gaze on me, my skin prickling slightly.

I know that, once again, I smell and look like sex, but I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that, even though we’re both clearly aware of it.

I dig into the pasta, which is surprisingly delicious, watching the movie and trying to figure out what it’s about as Atlas peruses my bookshelves for another couple of minutes. Then he walks over and settles on the couch as well, sitting at the opposite end from me.

“I used to love Twilight City Chronicles, ” he says, gazing ahead at the TV.

I slant him a sideways glance, my brows shooting upward. “Wow. Really? I didn’t know motorcycle gang enforcers could also be nerds.”

I can only see the profile of his face, but one side of his mouth twitches like he’s trying to cover up a grin. He snorts. “You’re one to talk. I just read it. I didn’t write fanfic about it.”

My jaw drops, embarrassment shooting through me. Fuck, is that still on the bookshelf?

I wrote it and illustrated it when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, so enamored with the characters from my favorite noir dystopian graphic novel series that I wanted to add to their story.

I tried to throw the fanfic out several years ago, but my dad—ever the proud father—refused to let me, calling it a work of art.

Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it since then, but Atlas must’ve found it on the shelf next to the collection of graphic novels I’ve had for years.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter. “You Princes are all so goddamn nosy.”

He shrugs, making a noise under his breath. “Hey, it wasn’t my idea to live here, vicious. I’m just trying to make the most of it and get this shit over with as soon as possible.” He goes silent for a moment, then smirks as he adds, “And I didn’t know gang leaders could be nerds either.”

That makes me laugh before I can stop myself, and I take another bite of pasta, a little thrown off by the fact that I’m actually enjoying Atlas’s company.

The awkwardness from earlier and the loaded tension from the kitchen both seem to fade away a little as we spend the next several minutes discussing our favorite issues and theories about the graphic novel.

I was half-convinced that Atlas was kidding about being a fan of the books, but it quickly becomes apparent that he wasn’t.

He knows obscure little details about the saga’s lore and storyline, and as we get into a lengthy debate about a particular plot point, I set my empty bowl down on the coffee table and turn on the couch to face him more fully.

It’s strange, being able to actually relate to Atlas like this. It’s not something I ever would’ve expected, but it feels… nice.

It makes some of the loneliness that’s been eating away at the edges of my soul since my dad died start to ebb away.

“The stuff you wrote was pretty good,” he says at one point, and I flush as I realize he actually read the fanfic I wrote, or at least some of it.

He drapes one muscled, tattooed arm along the back of the couch, leaning against the cushions.

“Although if I was going to create an alternate storyline for Luther, I would’ve shipped him with Danica. ”

I make a face. “Yeah, you and every thirteen-year-old girl who believes in soulmates and true love.”

“Come on. They were meant to be together.”

A new movie is playing by now, and the light from the television flickers off Atlas’s amber and brown eyes, making his irises look like dancing flames. He looks comfortable and languid, his body language more open and relaxed than I’ve ever seen it.

His attention is focused on me, neither of us paying any attention to the television, and I brace my elbow against the back of the couch, resting my chin on my fist.

“Luther and Danica? You know they never would’ve worked out,” I insist, grinning.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Bullshit.”

“Oh, really? Prove it.”

I lean a little closer to him as we get into a heated debate about the two characters’ arcs and storylines, and the almost-romance that developed between them in the graphic novels.

I’m honestly surprised Atlas is such a romantic at heart, but despite the arguments he lays out, I’m still not convinced that Luther and Danica could have ended up together.

“Nah.” I shake my head with a chuckle. “Nice try, but I still say it would’ve been impossible. There were too many obstacles built up against them.”

At my words, something shifts in Atlas’s expression. The easy smile that’s been hovering on his lips for the past several minutes slips away, his features hardening again. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he doesn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then he mutters, “Yeah. You’re probably right. There are too many obstacles.”

He stands suddenly, rising from the couch and turning off the TV. The room darkens, and as he strides around the couch and heads for the stairs, I blink at him, taken aback by the sharp change in his demeanor.

“Atlas, what?—”

“Put your bowl in the dishwasher before you go back to sleep,” he says coolly. “I’m not planning on making a habit out of cleaning up your messes.”

Then he disappears up the stairs.

I stare after him for a long moment, a feeling of cold creeping over my skin as the loneliness that lessened for a little while comes surging back.

We may have bonded over some stupid graphic novel we both used to read, an unexpected point of commonality with this man who’s always been my enemy, but clearly, that doesn’t change anything.

Shoving down the strange feeling of disappointment that rises in my chest, I shake my head and grab my bowl, carrying it to the sink.

I’m half tempted to leave the dirty dish out on the counter just to fuck with Atlas, but I don’t think it would give me the same sense of satisfaction it did when I made him wait forever while I cleaned up my work station at the tattoo parlor or called his bluff by stripping down in the dressing room.

So instead, I shove the bowl into the dishwasher and then pad quietly back upstairs.

Inside my room, Nico is still sprawled out on the bed, his naked, tattooed body taking up a good portion of the mattress. I chew on my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth as I stare down at him.

Part of me wants to shake him awake and tell him to get the fuck back to his own room.

That would probably be the smart thing to do.

It would help keep the lines between us from getting any blurrier than they already are, and it would give me back the upper hand in the constantly shifting landscape between us.

But for some reason—maybe because of that empty feeling that crept through my chest when Atlas left me alone in the living room—I don’t.

Instead, I shuck off my clothes and crawl back into bed beside Nico, tugging the covers up over both of us.

And when he rolls over in his sleep, one strong arm wrapping around my waist to pull me closer against his solid, warm body… I don’t stop him.