22. Quinn
22
QUINN
I meet Nico’s gaze first, then Killian’s, then Atlas’s. None of us need to say it out loud—we all heard Ambrose’s promises of violence. Of death and destruction. And he was so certain about it all.
This isn’t just business anymore. Whatever transactional relationship the Princes used to have with Ambrose ended when we all started developing feelings for each other.
No, we’re way beyond business disagreements. This is personal, and I’m pretty sure we all know that Ambrose won’t stop until he at least tries to get to us.
“He won’t touch you.” Atlas is the first to speak. “Not while I’m breathing.”
“While any of us are breathing,” Killian corrects, and something in my chest tightens at the steel in his voice and at the way Nico nods in silent agreement.
These men. These beautiful, deadly men who would tear the world apart to keep me safe. Just like I’d do for them.
“We should get you home,” Nico says, but I shake my head.
“I need to finish things here first.” I gesture at my gathered people, still watching us with worried faces. “We need new protocols in place before anyone leaves tonight. New routes. I need to start setting up new safe houses…” I swallow hard. “I won’t lose anyone else.”
The men exchange looks, then settle in around me like guard dogs. They don’t try to rush me, don’t try to force me to leave. They just create a protective barrier while I do what needs to be done.
Hours blur together as I work in the office, going over maps and plans with my top people. Damon brings coffee at some point. Jasper reports on some concerning movement at our borders. Through it all, my men remain steady presences. Atlas prowls the perimeter like a caged beast despite his injuries, Killian cleans his guns—then mine, then Nico’s, then Atlas’s too—and Nico makes calls to his own contacts, doing everything he can to help me secure and hold Enigma’s territory.
My head is pounding, but I have to keep working. Keep planning. Keep trying to find a way to protect everyone I care about from the storm that’s coming.
“You need rest,” Atlas finally says, his warm hand settling on my neck. I lean into his touch without meaning to, exhaustion hitting me like a physical weight.
“Almost done.” I shuffle through more papers, but the words are all starting to blur together. “Just need to?—”
“Quinn.” Nico’s voice is gentle but firm. “Your preliminary plans are solid. Your people know what to do for now. Let us take you home.”
I look up at them—these three men who’ve become my whole world. Killian watching the door like Death himself, ready to destroy anyone who threatens us. Atlas, still in pain but refusing to leave my side. Nico, always the voice of reason, always watching out for all of us.
My chest feels too full suddenly, emotions I can’t even name threatening to spill over. I’d die for them in a heartbeat. And that terrifies me, because I know they’d do the same for me.
“Okay,” I nod, finally letting the papers fall from my tired fingers onto my desk. “Let’s go home.”
The word feels different now. Home isn’t just a place anymore. It’s these three men who would walk through fire with me. For me.
I just pray we’re all strong enough to survive what’s coming.
When we finally make it back to the house, it feels like our own safe little bubble after the chaos of the day, but Atlas’s labored breathing as we walk through the door reminds me how close we came to losing him and how he still has a long road ahead until he’s fully healed. His face is pale, his pain obvious in the tight lines around his mouth.
“Upstairs,” I order, and for once he doesn’t argue. Nico and Killian flank him as he makes his way up, their hands hovering near his arms, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The sight makes my throat tight—these powerful men so careful with each other, so ready to support one another.
Once I’m sure they’ve got him settled, I head to the kitchen. My mind is still racing from the phone call with Ambrose as I pull out ingredients, but cooking gives me something else to focus on, at least temporarily.
I’m stirring chicken noodle soup—the same recipe my father used to make when I was sick—when Nico and Killian come back down. They move around the kitchen, Killian grabbing beers while Nico leans against the counter beside me.
“How is he?” I ask, even though I know they wouldn’t have left him if he wasn’t okay.
“Stubborn as fuck,” Killian grunts. “But he’ll live.”
The casual way he says it makes something crack in my chest. Because Atlas almost didn’t live. Because any of us could die in this war that’s brewing.
“What kind of soup are you making?” Nico asks, peering into the pot. His hand settles on my lower back, grounding me.
“Chicken noodle. I’m gonna take some up to Atlas when it’s done.” I stir slowly, letting the familiar motions calm my nerves. “He needs to keep his strength up.”
“What about us?” Killian’s lips quirk up slightly. “Don’t we deserve to be hand fed too?”
I try to smile, but it feels wobbly. “Let’s hope none of you are ever in a position to need this kind of care again.” My voice drops a little. “I can’t… I can’t watch any of you bleed like that again.”
The teasing mood evaporates. Nico pulls me against him, and Killian steps closer, bracketing me between them.
“We’re not going anywhere, siren,” Killian says quietly.
I nod against Nico’s chest, breathing in the scent of them both, letting their presence remind me that we’re all still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.
I carry the bowl upstairs, careful not to spill. Atlas is propped up in bed, shirtless, the bandages stark white against his skin. His eyes follow me as I enter, something soft and hungry in his gaze that makes my heart stutter.
“Here.” I settle on the edge of the bed beside him, passing him the bowl. “Careful, it’s hot.”
He takes a spoonful, and the appreciative sound he makes sends heat curling through my belly. “Even better than the pasta and vegetables I made you that night.”
“The night you cooked for me and left the leftovers in the fridge? You shocked the hell out of me that night.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “That feels like forever ago.”
“At least one or two lifetimes ago.” His voice is teasing, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “Even back then, there was something about you that made me want to cook for you and take care of you—even when we were supposed to be enemies.”
I trace my fingers over his arm, lost in the memory. “I remember coming down to the kitchen, so confused about why you’d do that for me.”
“I wanted to stay.” He sets the bowl aside, catching my hand in his. “Fuck, vicious, you have no idea how badly I wanted to stay that night. To talk to you more, to…” He swallows hard. “It felt so easy with you. Like I could tell you anything.”
“It did feel easy.” I squeeze his fingers. “Even though it shouldn’t have been. Even though we were supposed to hate each other.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Speaking of that night… I do remember finding something interesting. A certain piece of writing about Twilight City Chronicles .”
Heat floods my face. “Oh, Jesus. Not this again.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Do you know what it did to me? Reading those words you wrote, seeing inside your mind like that?” He tugs me closer. “It just made me want you more. Made me realize how perfectly fucked up you are. Just like me.”
I lean in, drawn by the hunger in his voice. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His free hand slides into my hair. “I mean sure, you’re still wrong about Luther and Danica, but I can look past that.”
A laugh escapes my throat before I can stop myself. “You sure were pissed at me that night. I didn’t realize you shipped them that hard.”
“It wasn’t about Danica and Luther. You know that.” He frowns for a split-second, lost in the memory, then shakes his head. “Anyway, we can disagree on that point. But I still knew right then that no one else would ever understand me the way you do. The way you wrote about darkness and light, about violence and love…” His breath fans across my lips. “Like they’re two sides of the same coin.”
“They are.” I press closer, careful of his wounds. “At least for people like us.”
He kisses me and I melt into him. Tasting the soup on his tongue, breathing in the scent that’s uniquely him, I understand exactly what he means. The violence and the tenderness, the pain and the pleasure—it’s all tangled up together, making us who we are.
I take his hand and press it to my chest, right over his mark. My heart pounds against his palm as I whisper, “You have me.” The words feel too big for my throat, too raw and honest, but I need him to know. “All of me.”
His eyes darken, and he pulls me down for another kiss. This one is deeper, hungrier, but I can feel the exhaustion in the way his hands tremble slightly against my skin. Breaking the kiss feels like tearing open a wound, but I force myself to pull back.
“Get some rest,” I murmur, running my thumb over his bottom lip. “I need you strong.”
He catches my wrist, pressing a kiss to my pulse point before letting me go. The gesture is so tender it makes my chest ache.
I slip out into the hallway, closing his door softly behind me. For a moment, I just lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. The warmth of Atlas’s touch lingers on my skin, but it’s already being replaced by a feeling of dread that claws its way up from the pit of my stomach.
The weight of everything crashes over me at once—Ambrose’s threats, the Tyrants gunning for us, Emmett’s betrayal. My fingers curl into fists as memories flood my mind. Atlas thinking he was going to sacrifice himself for me, his screams over the phone, the way I felt when my father got killed… It’s all happening again. Everyone I love is in danger, and I don’t know how to stop it.
My chest feels too tight as I slide down the wall, wrapping my arms around my knees. I’ve already lost too much. The thought of losing any of them—Atlas, Nico, Killian, my gang members—it makes it hard to breathe. These men have become my whole world, and the idea that Ambrose or anyone else could take them from me… I press my forehead to my knees, trying to get control of myself. But all I can think about is how close Atlas came to dying, how easily it could be any of them next time. I’m supposed to be strong enough to protect the people I care about, but what if I’m not? What if loving me just puts targets on all their backs?
Heavy footsteps on the stairs snap me out of my spiral. I quickly swipe at my eyes and push to my feet, forcing my breathing to steady. Leaders don’t break down in hallways. They don’t show weakness. By the time the footsteps reach the landing, I’ve got myself back together. My back is straight. My chin is lifted.
I’m good. Good enough for now.
I can feel Killian’s gaze lock onto me the instant he appears at the top of the stairs, even before I’ve had a chance to look over and make eye contact. His massive frame fills the space, but he somehow still moves with the easy, effortless grace of an apex predator, like a lion stalking through the shadows.
I know he sees more than I want him to—he always does—but I meet his eyes steadily, daring him to comment on the way my hands are still trembling or how my mascara might be smudged from tears I refuse to acknowledge, let alone fall down my cheeks.
“You okay?” His voice is low and deceptively gentle.
“Yes.” The lie slips out automatically, my default response anytime I’m asked that question.
In a flash, his hand shoots up to tangle in my hair, yanking my head back sharply. The sudden pain makes me gasp, my scattered thoughts snapping into focus as my scalp tingles. His other hand grips my jaw, forcing me to meet his piercing eyes.
“What did we agree on?” All the gentleness has gone from his voice. “No more lies between us. Not ever.” His fingers tighten in my hair, sending another sharp sting through my scalp. “Try again, siren. Are you okay?”
I’m not sure whether I should be pissed off or turned on as I stare up at him. This is what he does. He strips away my defenses until I’m raw and exposed. Until there’s nowhere left to hide.
“I…” My voice catches as he gives another warning tug. “No. I’m not okay.”
“Tell me.”
“My mind won’t stop.” The words tumble out, freed by the intensity of his grip, by the way he’s staring into me like he can see every broken piece. “There are too many thoughts, too many threats, too much—” My breath hitches. “I can’t make it stop.”
Something in his face softens for just a moment, a flash of understanding in those intense, all-seeing eyes. “I know.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, the gesture surprisingly gentle compared to his grip on my hair. “Do you want me to help you stop thinking for a while?”
Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the promise in them. He’s offering what he knows I need—a way to shut off my racing mind, to focus only on the kind of pain and pleasure I know he can give me.
I nod as much as his grip allows. “Please.”
The softness leaves his face and is immediately replaced by something darker and hungrier. His pupils dilate until only a thin ring of green remains, and my pulse kicks up at the sight. Without another word, he drags me down the hall toward his bedroom with his fingers still twisted in my hair.
The door slams behind us as he pulls me inside, and I allow myself a split-second of peace along with the anticipation I’m feeling. No matter how rough he is with me, I know for sure he won’t allow me to think of anything—anyone—else but him while we’re together.