Princess of Vengeance (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #4)

1. Quinn

1

QUINN

The cold press of a gun barrel against the back of my head makes me freeze instinctively.

My muscles coil tightly, and adrenaline floods my system as the words Malcolm just spoke echo in my ears.

“Your life is forfeit.”

A little while ago, my men and I were celebrating Ambrose’s death. The memory is so fresh that I don’t even have to close my eyes to picture that psychotic bastard finally lying dead in the street after months of terrorizing us. But then we got the call from Malcolm summoning us to a Syndicate meeting in the basement of Noctura, and now everything has somehow gone to shit.

Beside me, my men are also being held at gunpoint by Malcolm’s guards. The rage coming off my hotheaded Princes is almost palpable, and I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before one of them tries something. But there are too many guns and too many guards. The entire Dark Lotus Syndicate is surrounding us, and for once, violence won’t get us out of this.

It’ll only get us killed faster.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I force myself to breathe steadily. The last thing I can afford to do right now is to show even a hint of weakness.

The dark, cavernous meeting room beneath the sleek, modern day spa suddenly feels like a tomb, and the gun pressed to my skull makes it clear that Malcolm has no intention of letting us out of here alive.

Which means it’s up to me to fix the problem I created.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily enough. I’ve had enough time to prepare for the possibility of something like this happening, even though I was also too fucking arrogant to give the scenario more than a few passing thoughts. “If Celine survived somehow, that’s news to me. You saw her severed hand in that bag I brought. You all did.”

“A severed hand from the morgue,” Malcolm takes a few steps closer until the only sound I can hear over my own breathing is the tapping of his shoes against the cement floor. “Quite resourceful of you, Quinn. But such a waste in the end.”

The guard behind me yanks me up from my chair without warning. My knees almost buckle—the fight with Ambrose’s men left me weaker than I’d like to admit—but I manage to stay upright.

Malcolm’s hand shoots out, gripping my chin without warning. His touch is almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse than if he’d grabbed me roughly. Those cold eyes of his rake over my face like he’s memorizing it. Or mourning it.

“You know what I’ve always appreciated about you?” His thumb brushes along my jaw, and it takes everything in me not to bite it off. “You’re an excellent liar. One of the best I’ve seen.” His grip tightens just enough to sting. “But that still makes you a liar.”

Beside me, I hear the subtle shift of movement—probably Killian, ready to tear Malcolm’s throat out. The sound of a gun being cocked stills him just as quickly.

And yeah, that’s a good reminder of our situation. We’re used to being the underdogs. My men and I wouldn’t even know what to do if the odds weren’t stacked against us. But this?

I’m honestly not sure how we get out of here alive.

“It’s really a shame,” Malcolm continues, sounding almost sincere, even with that distinctively patronizing tone. “I had such plans for your future here. I could’ve spent years showing you the ropes and watching you rise through our ranks…” His eyes get this faraway look, and I have to wonder if he actually believes his own bullshit, because I sure as hell don’t. “You could have been extraordinary.”

“The rules are clear.” Elliot’s eager voice cuts through whatever weird moment Malcolm and I are having. “She betrayed us. Her life is forfeit.”

Something flickers across Malcolm’s face—disappointment maybe, or anger at being interrupted. But he releases my chin with obvious reluctance and steps back, smoothing his expression into that controlled mask again.

“Of course,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie. “Rules must be followed. But we can at least allow her men the small courtesy of watching her die before they join her.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Fear for myself—that I can handle. I’ve been staring death in the fucking face since before I took over Enigma from my father. But hearing Malcolm so casually announce that my men have to die too? After he tortures them by executing me first?

That’s different. Those words send a jolt of pure fear shooting down my chest, closing my throat until I’m suddenly struggling to breathe.

I did this to them. My choice to spare Celine, my weakness in showing mercy, is about to get them all killed. The one fucking rule the Syndicate actually gives a shit about—honoring each other’s votums—and I broke it. Not just broke it, but lied about it while calling in favors from the very people I’d betrayed.

My body feels cold, detached, like I’m already dying. But my mind is racing, desperately searching for a way to save my men. Malcolm can kill me. I’ve earned that. But them? They don’t deserve to die for my choices.

A slight shift in Atlas’s weight catches my attention. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s going to strike soon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nico’s fingers twitch, and I know he’s already calculating the distance to the nearest guard. Killian hasn’t moved at all, which usually means he’s already decided which throat to tear out first.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest. Fuck. I know these men. I know how they fight and how they think. And right now, I know that they’re about to try something stupid and heroic that’ll get them killed even faster.

I catch their eyes and shake my head. Just slightly, but they all see it. The muscle in Killian’s jaw jumps. Nico’s eyes narrow. Atlas’s hands clench into fists.

No , I mouth. Don’t .

There are too many weapons trained on us, too many eyes watching our every move. If they try to fight now, they’ll die before I do. And that’s the one thing I can’t handle.

“There’s a ritual that must be followed.” Malcolm intones, as if he’s trying to make murder sound civilized.

“Of course there fucking is.” I can’t help the mockery that creeps into my voice. After all the shit I’ve been through today, his theatrical bullshit is almost funny.

Or it would be if it was aimed at someone else.

Rafael snorts from his corner of the room, and Malcolm’s head snaps toward him, eyes flashing with an unmistakable warning. Rafael doesn’t flinch, but he does look away. The other crime lords around this table might not like Malcolm, but they all know better than to push him too far.

The guard holding me jerks me forward as Malcolm gestures toward the far wall. My boots scrape against the concrete floor as they drag me across the room. There’s not much I can do to stop what’s happening, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to make it easy on them. As we get closer to the wall, all I can focus on are the steel hooks mounted high above my head. I never noticed them before. I guess I never had a reason to.

Two more guards step forward with metal chains clinking in their hands. Just knowing they’re for me makes my stomach turn. They thread the chains through the hooks while the first guard holds me in place, his fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise.

“Spread your arms,” one of them orders.

I bare my teeth at him. “Make me.”

They do, of course. Rough hands grab my wrists, forcing my arms out wide. The cold metal of the manacles bites into my skin as they lock them around my wrists. They chain my ankles too, spreading my legs just enough that I can’t get any leverage.

When they step back, I test the chains. They don’t give at all. I’m stretched out against the wall like a fucking sacrifice, completely helpless, and the reality of what’s about to happen starts to sink in.

Malcolm gestures to another guard who is stationed near the door that I’ve only ever seen the Syndicate leader use. The guard pulls a polished wooden box from a shelf and sets it on the conference table. It’s beautiful, all dark wood and brass fittings, like something you’d keep expensive cigars in. But when he opens it, there’s nothing refined or subtle about the knife lying on the velvet inside. The handle is laced with a red cord and the blade is long and wickedly sharp, designed for one purpose only—to kill.

“Since you betrayed us all equally,” Malcolm says, lifting the knife and turning it so it catches the light, “it’s only fair that we all have an equal hand in your death. One blow each.”

“No!” Atlas surges forward, but the guard behind him slams the butt of his gun into Atlas’s skull, driving him to his knees. The sound of the impact makes me flinch.

Killian lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before—something between a growl and a roar. He actually manages to break the guard’s grip before two more tackle him, forcing him back down. A gun barrel pressed against his temple finally stills him.

Nico doesn’t move, but his eyes promise death. The kind of death that comes slowly, with maximum pain. The look he’s giving Malcolm right now—I’d say Malcolm’s odds are only slightly better than mine at making it out of here alive.

“Patience, gentlemen. It’s not your turn yet,” Malcolm tells them, then flicks a wrist in my direction. “Bring them closer though. I want them to have a good view.”

The guards drag my men forward, forcing them to their knees about fifteen feet from where I’m chained. Close enough that I can see every emotion that crosses their faces. Close enough that they won’t miss a single detail of what’s about to happen to me.

“Front row seats to the show,” he says with that predatory smile spreading across his smug fucking face.

Malcolm holds the knife out to Elliot, handle first. “Since she betrayed your votum directly, you should have the first blow.”

Elliot takes the blade with the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen cross his face. It’s completely at odds with the look of pure hatred in his eyes as he walks toward me. This isn’t just about the votum anymore. This is about me making him look weak in front of the Syndicate. It’s about a pregnant woman escaping his reach because I chose mercy over murder.

I force myself to meet his hateful stare, refusing to show fear even though my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. “I knew giving you that severed hand would be good enough to fool you. I guess I wasn’t counting on anyone else calling my bluff.”

His expression twists from anger and hatred to pure rage. The blade flashes in the light, and then pain explodes through my left side as he drives the knife in just below my ribs. He puts his whole weight behind it, and I can feel the blade slice through muscle and scrape against bone.

I try to bite back my cry of pain, clenching my jaw so hard my teeth might crack. But then Elliot twists the knife, grinding it against my ribs, and I can’t hold it in anymore. The sound that tears from my throat is raw and primal, more like a wounded animal than any noise a human should ever have to make.

Through the haze of my own excruciating pain, I can vaguely hear the sounds of grunts and heavy breaths as my men strain against their captors. The brief sounds of scuffling seem like they’re miles away, only to fade away as quickly as they started with a few bursts of cursing.

Elliot yanks the knife out, and fresh pain rips through me. Warm blood immediately starts soaking through my shirt, running down my side in sticky rivulets. My pulse is racing, sending more blood pumping from the wound with each beat.

This is how I’m going to die. One stab at a time, in front of the men I love, all because I couldn’t bring myself to kill a pregnant woman. And the worst part is that I’d make the same choice all over again.

Malcolm hands the bloody knife to Imogen next. Her expression doesn’t change at all as she takes it from him, and she keeps that same perfect mask of neutrality in place as she approaches me. Her heels click against the concrete floor, each step measured and deliberate.

My side is on fire where Elliot stabbed me, and my shirt is already soaked through with blood. I try to focus on Imogen’s face as she steps close—too close, like this is intimate somehow—but my vision keeps trying to blur at the edges.

She raises the knife, and I brace myself for more searing pain. But when the blade slides into my upper chest, just below my collarbone, something is different. The pain is there, sharp and immediate, but it’s not the bone-deep, grinding agony that Elliot inflicted. She’s barely pushed the blade in at all.

I meet her eyes, searching for some kind of meaning through the haze of pain that’s radiating through my chest. Her expression doesn’t give anything away, but there’s something in the way she’s staring back at me—something I might be able to catch if my head wasn’t starting to swim from the steady loss of blood.

A fresh burst of pain shoots through me as she withdraws the blade, and I can’t help the grunt that escapes my throat. My legs try to give out, and I sag against the chains holding me up. The manacles bite into my wrists as they take my full weight, but that sting is hardly noticeable compared to everything else I’m feeling.

Through the fog, I hear one of my men make a sound like he’s being gutted by having to watch me suffer like this. Probably Atlas—he’s always been the one who feels everything the deepest, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

Malcolm passes the knife to Owen with a pleased smile, like he’s hosting a particularly entertaining dinner party. Or maybe that’s just how I’m imagining him, with my vision swimming in and out of focus. Even Owen’s heavy footsteps are starting to echo strangely in my head.

A groan slips past my lips as my head lolls forward. The blood loss is really starting to hit me now, making everything feel distant and hazy. The chains are the only thing holding me upright now that my legs have completely given out.

Owen comes to a stop in front of me, his gray eyes shadowed and impossible to read.

He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath on my face as he raises the knife, and my pulse spikes. I don’t know if he’s searching for something in my expression, or if he just wants to watch the pain in my eyes when he drives the blade in—but either way, it’s a bad fucking move.

I gather every ounce of strength I have left, everything that makes me my father’s daughter, that makes me tough enough to lead a gang in my own right. Everything that makes me the woman that three dangerous men choose to love. Moving like lightning, I slam my forehead into Owen’s face with everything I’ve got.