16. Quinn
16
QUINN
Every cell in my body rejects Malcolm’s words as he announces that I’m his wife. Even hearing him say it makes me want to cringe or vomit or both. Instead, I manage to force a tight smile as the other Syndicate members scrutinize me like I’m some kind of fucking circus exhibit.
Malcolm’s fingers dig into my hip, and when I glance up at him, the look in his eyes sends a chill down my back. I’ve seen that same possessive gleam before, but it’s deeper and darker and more unsettling now.
No, not just unsettling. It’s fucking terrifying. I can tell by that look that he isn’t going to be content with controlling me—or even owning me.
He wants to break me.
I take a small step back, breaking contact with him as smoothly as I can manage. Not enough to make it obvious that I can barely stand his touch, but enough to put a sliver of space between us. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a second, I think for sure that I’ve fucked up, and now he’s going to call me out in front of everyone.
But he just smiles that empty smile of his and turns back to address the others. Thank fuck. I can’t afford to piss him off when his protection is the only thing keeping me alive in the world’s most exclusive dungeon.
Malcolm motions for Elliot to come over, and I tense for what could easily turn into an awkward, possibly violent confrontation. He’s the one whose votum I refused to honor, after all.
He doesn’t seem to want revenge at the moment, though—even Elliot isn’t stupid enough to go up against Malcolm on his home turf—so I get off the hook pretty lightly with just a harsh glare in my direction.
For now.
“You understand the necessity of this,” Malcolm says, his voice barely more than a murmur. If I wasn’t standing a foot away, there’s no way I’d be able to hear this conversation. As it is, I have to strain a little while still doing my best to seem uninterested. “The Syndicate could benefit from her connections and her?—”
“The Syndicate needs people who honor their vows.” Elliot interrupts, and now I can plainly hear the barely contained rage. “She made a complete fucking joke out of me, you, and everything we stand for.”
“And she’ll pay for that transgression.” Malcolm’s eyes glitter with something dark. “In fact, she’s already started to pay. Just in a different way than we originally planned.”
While they continue their hushed argument, Imogen slides up next to me, so quiet and unobtrusively that I don’t even notice her until she’s almost in my ear.
“Well, well,” she breathes in, her lips barely moving. “Looks like you found a way to cheat death after all. By marrying the grim reaper himself.”
“Like I had a fucking choice,” I whisper back, watching Malcolm gesture emphatically at Elliot.
“No, I suppose you didn’t. None of us ever really do when it comes to him.”
There’s a bitter edge in her tone that catches my attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Malcolm makes the rules, and Malcolm changes them whenever it suits him.” She’s speaking so quietly now that I have to hold my own breath just to hear her. “The rest of us just have to fall in line and pretend we don’t notice how the game is rigged.”
I turn my head slightly, studying her from the corner of my eye. This is the first crack I’ve seen in the Syndicate’s united front. It’s the first hint that maybe not everyone is as devoted to Malcolm’s leadership as they appear.
“Careful now,” she murmurs, apparently noticing my interest. “Those kinds of thoughts are dangerous around here.” She gives me a knowing look. “But I’m sure you’ve already figured that out.”
On the other side of me, Malcolm’s voice rises slightly. “It’s done, Elliot. Unless you’d care to challenge my decision?”
Elliot says something in a lower, more grudgingly respectful tone that I can’t quite catch. Whatever it is seems to satisfy Malcolm though, because his posture relaxes slightly.
I want to ask Imogen more about what she meant—about Malcolm changing rules and the game being rigged. But I can’t risk drawing attention to our whispered conversation. Instead, I ask the question that’s been in the front of my mind since I saw her earlier. “The cat… is it okay?”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“The cat we had to leave in your penthouse. When you went there…” I trail off, not wanting to reveal how much I know about her visits.
“Oh.” Her expression softens, but only a little. “Yes. It seemed cruel to leave it there alone, so I took it home with me.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you for taking care of her. That means a lot.”
She gives me a stiff nod, and I catch a flicker of something in her eyes. Maybe recognition that I’m not quite the heartless bitch they all thought I was.
“Quinn.” The way Malcolm says my name is like a harsh command.
Imogen’s lips barely move. “Your master calls.” She steps away, but not before adding in a whisper, “Welcome back to hell, sister. I hope it was worth the price of admission.”
I watch her walk away with a million thoughts and questions running through my mind. Could there be more trouble in the ranks than Malcolm realizes? And if there is, how the hell can I use that information to my advantage?
Malcolm’s hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me against his side as the other Syndicate members begin filing out. My skin burns where he touches me, but I force myself to stay still and accept his possessive grip like a good little wife.
“Congratulations.” Rafael’s smile is all teeth as he clasps Malcolm’s free hand. His eyes flick over to me in a measuring, calculating look. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how the dynamics have changed with my sudden marriage to Malcolm.
Owen just gives a sharp nod, but keeps his expression completely unreadable. Cassandra murmurs something polite but coolly noncommittal as she breezes past with Imogen right behind her.
Elliot is the last to leave. The look he gives me could strip paint from walls—pure hatred barely contained behind the thinnest veneer of civility. “May you both get exactly what you deserve,” he says, and the threat in his voice is unmistakable.
Malcolm tenses next to me as he flashes his characteristically smug smile. “Thank you, Elliot. I’m sure we will.”
I try my best to memorize every detail as I watch them all leave. Their body language, their subtle glances—I know without a doubt that alliances are forming and reforming around us, but I’m still too new to this group to fully understand the nuances.
One thing is crystal clear though. In this viper pit, Elliot is the one who wants to sink his teeth into me first. Mostly likely followed by my husband as a close second.
The door closes behind the last of them with a heavy thud, leaving me alone with Malcolm and at least a half-dozen security guards who are armed to the teeth.
Malcolm’s hand drops from my hip only long enough for him to guide me toward the private corridor that leads to his elevator.
Fuck me. This is going to be my life now. His hands, his control, his rules.
“Come, my dear.” He’s slipped into his role as my husband with far too much ease for my liking. “You did well today. I think you’ll find I can make your life quite comfortable as long as you uphold your end of the bargain.”
The way he says it makes my stomach turn. I focus on keeping my steps steady, on not showing how badly I want to bolt down this hallway and never look back.
When we finally leave the sleek, dark building and step into the sunlight, he offers his hand to help me into the waiting SUV. I ignore it, climbing in on my own. If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it as he slides in beside me.
I look down my left hand as we pull away from the curb, to the ring that feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. At least the bastard didn’t tattoo me—small fucking consolation that it is—but the ring is almost as bad. It’s a constant physical reminder of everything I’ve willingly given up to be with him
I twist it on my finger, watching the diamonds catch the light. The urge to rip it off and chuck it out the window is so strong my fingers actually twitch. But I can’t. Just like I can’t do any of the other things I want to do right now, like wrap my hands around Malcolm’s throat and squeeze until the life fades out of those cold eyes.
We both stay silent for the ride back to his big, fancy house, and I ignore his hand again as he offers to help me out of the SUV.
“Stubborn.” He sighs, although there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “You’ll learn eventually. They always do.”
I’m not sure who or what he means by that, but I’m sure as hell not going to ask. Instead, I turn to him in the foyer and blurt out the idea I’ve been turning over and over in my head on the way back from Noctura.
“I want to re-open Blood and Ink.”
He turns and gives me a look as if I’ve just spoken in a different language. “What? Why?”
“Since we’re married now, I feel like I should be contributing to the Dark Lotus Syndicate.” It’s a line of bullshit, of course, but I’m doing my damnedest to sell it. “I want to rebuild my organization and make it strong again. We both know I could be useful to your ambitions.”
“My ambitions…” A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth before he turns serious again. “Blood and Ink burned to the ground, if you recall. Unless you’re planning to operate out of the ashes?”
Of course the fucker knows about what Ambrose did to the tattoo parlor, even though I never outright told him what had happened that led to me calling in a votum after the fires. He’s probably been digging through every scrap of my life while he was hunting me down.
“My father owned another building.” I cross my arms, ready to dig in and turn this into a full-blown negotiation if I need to. “He used it sometimes for business. It needs work, but with the right resources, I could turn it into something.” I meet his gaze. “Unless you’d prefer your wife to sit around in this big house with nothing to occupy her time?”
That gets a genuine laugh out of him, although it still sets my teeth on edge. “Hardly. There probably isn’t anyone in Detroit who is more dangerous than my sweet wife with too much time on her hands. Although I must admit, I’m surprised.” He steps closer, and it takes everything I have not to back away. “I would have thought you’d want to distance yourself from your old life. Maybe start fresh?”
“This is me starting fresh.” It isn’t a complete lie. I’d be getting a taste of my old life, but in a completely new way. “New location, new leadership structure. But keeping the parts that worked.”
His eyes narrow slightly as he studies me. Several tense seconds pass, and I can see him weighing the decision. He’s smart enough to know I’m playing some kind of angle, but too arrogant to admit he’d probably feel safer keeping me here under house arrest.
I’m counting on that arrogance to get me through this conversation.
Finally, he speaks. “You understand that if you try to run, I’ll hunt you down.” His voice is soft, almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “I did it once, and I can do it again. And next time, I won’t be so merciful.”
There’s nothing subtle about the threat. We both know he’s not just talking about me. He’s talking about the mercy he’s shown my men too. There’s zero doubt about what he’ll do to them if I step out of line.
“I understand.” And I do. I’ve seen what Malcolm is capable of on his own, and what the Dark Lotus Syndicate can do when they work together.
I’d rather not go up against them again until the odds are closer to being even. And I’m honestly not sure that will ever happen.
“Alright. Then I’ll allow it.” He starts to nod, then holds up one hand. “If you give me another kiss.”
My stomach lurches, but I mirror his nod. What’s one more violation after everything I’ve been through?
I step closer and tilt my face up to his. His hand cups the back of my neck and his long fingers tangle in my hair. There’s nothing gentle about his touch. Everything is about possessing and claiming with him. It’s about keeping score.
When his mouth crashes down on mine, it’s somehow even worse than before. His tongue forces its way between my lips, prodding and insistent. I want to gag, or to bite down. Or maybe knee him in the balls and run.
Instead, I stand there and take it, letting him stake his claim all over again.
He finally pulls back, grinning and triumphant. “You’ll learn to love it.” He reaches out with his thumb to wipe a trace of saliva from the corner of my mouth. “You might even start to crave it.”
My stomach churns and I have to look away for a second before I become violently ill and undo everything I’ve just accomplished.
I take a deep breath and turn to face him again, and that’s when I realize that he really believes the shit that’s coming out of his own mouth. That I’ll learn to love his kisses. That I’ll somehow start to crave being with him.
Over my dead fucking body.
But I don’t say that. I just stand there, his disgusting taste still lingering in my mouth, and nod like the good little wife I’m pretending to be.
Patience isn’t a virtue I normally possess, but I somehow convince my mind to shut down long enough to sleep through the night after my conversation with Malcolm.
Now that he’s given me permission to rebuild Blood and Ink, I don’t want to waste any time getting started. But I know he’s already suspicious of my motives, so I can’t look too eager.
I force myself to wait through breakfast and lunch before I call a cab, and I’m on pins and needles the entire time. It feels like everything I have left in the world could be taken away on a whim.
Malcolm could decide that this new, tiny taste of freedom he’s given me is too dangerous. Or he might decide that I’m more trouble than I’m worth and slit my throat for shits and giggles.
That danger is still on my mind when the cab pulls up outside a squat brick building in one of Detroit's rougher areas. Through the rearview mirror, I watch a black SUV stop half a block behind us, where Malcolm’s guards can watch every move I make like the good little lap dogs they are.
I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk, taking in the graffiti-covered walls and boarded-up windows of what used to be one of my dad's side operations. Back then, it was a front for moving liquor, drugs, guns, and anything else that might turn a quick profit on the black market. Now it's just another abandoned building in a city full of them.
Perfect.
The lock is rusted but it still holds. I fish my keychain from my pocket and sort through the older keys until I find the one I’m looking for. It takes some work, but the door finally creaks open, letting out a whiff of stale air.
The interior is dusty as hell, but exactly how I remember it, with exposed brick walls, high ceilings with metal rafters, and enough space to set up whatever the fuck I want.
There are empty boxes and old furniture scattered around, leftover from the last time this place was used, but that’s okay. I’ll use what I can and get rid of the rest.
I look over at an unused display case and think about how my dad used to bring me here from time to time. He always stressed how important it was to keep my real operations hidden behind boring, legitimate ones.
It’s a lesson that has served me well over the years, and I hope like hell it’ll keep serving me now.
Once I’ve spent some time on the ground floor, I feel my way down the basement stairs and move carefully stacks of rotting cardboard boxes and rusted metal shelving.
The musty smell gets stronger with every step, and it’s bringing back memories of following my father down here to learn all his secrets.
Including this one.
My fingers trail along the far wall until I find the slight gap between bricks. The hidden door groans as I push it open, revealing a narrow tunnel.
This fucking thing probably hasn't been used in years .
Cobwebs brush my face as I make my way through, and I have to duck under a few pipes. After about fifty feet, I reach another door that I know leads into the basement of Mickey's Bar.
The bar won't open for hours yet, but I know the back entrance code hasn't changed in over ten years.
Sure enough, it still works.
The familiar smell of stale beer and old cigarettes is almost comforting as I climb the stairs into the main bar. I grab a piece of paper and a pen from behind the register, then write two simple notes.
One to Mickey and one to my men.
If anyone can get word to them, it’s him. I just hope it’s enough to bring them here, if they're even still in Detroit. If they haven't already written me off as the backstabbing bitch I pretended to be.
But that's a big fucking if.
For all I know, they believed every word I said in that safe house. Maybe they think I really did choose Malcolm's power over their love. Maybe they've already left the city, wanting nothing more to do with me or the batshit crazy drama that seems to follow me everywhere I go.
The thought makes my chest ache, but I push it down. I can't afford to spiral right now. Not when Malcolm's guards are probably wondering what's taking me so long.
I slide the notes into the register’s cash drop, sending up a silent prayer that Mickey sees them. Then I retrace my steps through the tunnel and back up to the main floor of my dad's old building.
I spend a few more minutes walking the space, picturing where everything will go. The front desk here, the tattoo stations along that wall. But my mind keeps drifting to the possibility of seeing my men again.
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. But first, it’s time to play the good little wife again.
The next night, I tell Malcolm I need to check on some things at the building. He allows it, probably thinking I'm actually starting to embrace this new life he's forced me into.
I slip into Mickey's, hoping at least one of my men will be there waiting for me.
But there are only a handful of old regulars sitting at the bar, and Mickey confirms he’s relayed the message—not to Nico, Atlas, or Killian directly, unfortunately, but to an intermediary he trusts.
It’s hard as hell not to be frustrated, and I do appreciate the favor. I just know I’m on borrowed time, and I fucking need this to work. More importantly, I need to see my men again.
The next night, I try again. Another excuse to Malcolm. Another bitter disappointment when they don't show up.
The following night, I have to seriously start to consider the possibility that they’ve moved on. That they don’t want to see me again.
The night after that, I’m almost ready to give up.