21. Quinn
21
QUINN
I pace around the too-big, too-fancy chef’s kitchen rehearsing my lie for the hundredth time, wishing I was anywhere else in the world but here.
No, that’s not true.
I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to be with my men.
My fingers absently twist the wedding ring I hate so fucking much, and I force myself to stop in my tracks and take a deep, calming breath just as I hear my jailer coming down the hallway.
Malcolm walks in, impeccably dressed as always, and I silently remind myself not to stiffen. His eyes land on me instantly—they always do. Like a predator tracking its prey.
“Cooking something?” He glances over at the spotlessly clean stovetop. “I didn’t think so. But then, I didn’t marry you for your abilities as a housewife.”
Jesus . Every word out of his mouth makes me want to dry heave, but I’m determined to let his petty little digs and smug fucking looks slide for now.
“I thought I’d go see Imogen today,” I say, as if it’s the most normal, mundane thing in the world.
“What?” The word comes out harsh and immediate, cracking his arrogant veneer—but only for a split-second. His eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. “Is this more of your Enigma business?”
At least I don’t have to lie about this part. “No. She has my cat.”
I can tell by the confused look that flashes across his hard, angular features that I’ve caught him off guard again. “Your cat?”
“Yeah. In case you’ve forgotten, you didn’t really give me a chance to sort my life out before you tried to kill me and then forced me to marry you.” His expression hardens again and I have to remind myself to bite my fucking tongue before it gets me into trouble. Again. “Anyway, I miss my cat, and I’d like to thank Imogen properly for taking care of her.”
He stays quiet for several long seconds, and I wonder if he might put his foot down and keep me under house arrest simply out of spite.
Thankfully, he gives in with a dismissive gesture, as if the whole conversation is suddenly beneath him. “I suppose that could be arranged. I’ll have someone drive you.”
“Of course.” I offer the fake smile that I’ve damn near perfected since I’ve been staying here. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
I turn and start heading back to my room before he has a chance to change his mind. I’ll leave him to plot or sulk or whatever it is that he does when I’m not around. I have more important things to do.
I’ve spent the past few days thinking back to every interaction I’ve had with the Syndicate and every meeting I’ve attended—anything that might help me figure out who else might hate Malcolm enough to turn on him. So far, I’ve got next to nothing.
It would help, of course, if I’d been a member for longer. I’d know more about their personalities and personal lives. I’d know their tics and tells and maybe even a little dirt to help me along.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to learn any of that shit, so I’m stuck with the tidbits I do know—and those tidbits all lead back to Imogen.
She’s the one who gave me and my men a place to stay when nobody else was going to. She’s the one who kept Princess alive without being asked or compensated for the trouble.
And she’s the one who tipped me off to the fact that Malcolm might not be as all-knowing and all-powerful within the Syndicate as he’d like to make people think.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots that have taken up permanent residence there. My body is wound so tight I feel like I might fucking snap in half. I can’t remember the last time I even took a full breath.
Living with Malcolm is like tiptoeing through a damn minefield. He scrutinizes every move I make and every word out of my mouth, and I’m almost certain that every conversation is a test.
Tests I’m probably failing, since I’m not the greatest at swallowing my feelings or keeping my mouth shut when I feel like I’m being pressured.
At least he hasn’t tried to touch me again, not since that first kiss after our “wedding,” but his eyes follow me everywhere, and I know it’s only a matter of time before his patience wears out completely.
At night, I lock my bedroom door, even though I know it wouldn’t stop him if he really wanted to get in. It’s more symbolic than anything else—a tiny act of defiance that helps me sleep.
But not well. Never well.
There’s never any doubt that he holds all the cards, and they’re all stacked in his favor. That knowledge and the cold look in his eyes makes me feel like prey from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night.
I fucking hate that feeling. The only time it ever felt sexy to be chased was when my men were doing the chasing.
Malcolm’s driver takes me to Imogen’s place in a sleek black SUV with windows tinted so dark that they make the interior of the vehicle unusually dim and oppressive.
Or maybe that’s just due to the mood I’m in.
One of Malcolm’s guards is sitting next to me in the back seat, with his bulky frame taking up more than his fair share of space. I press myself against the door, creating as much distance between us as possible.
Even though I’m not at the house anymore, I don’t feel any real sense of freedom. This is just a different kind of cage, with different walls.
As we drive through Detroit’s upscale neighborhoods, doubt starts to creep in. What the fuck am I doing? Am I walking straight into a trap? Imogen might have taken the cat in, but she also drove a knife into my chest not that long ago.
The memory of being chained to that wall flashes through my mind—all of them lining up to take their turn with the knife. Malcolm’s cold eyes. Elliot’s vicious twist of the blade. And Imogen, with her unreadable expression as she stepped up for her turn.
I rub absently at my upper chest where her knife went in. The wound has mostly healed now, but sometimes I swear I can still feel the bite of steel.
“Mrs. Mercer, we’ve arrived,” the driver says, and I flinch at the name. I’ll never be a fucking Mercer, no matter what a piece of paper says I am.
As I step out of the SUV, I instinctively check my surroundings and try to steady my racing nerves.
I’m probably overthinking this. If I’m going to pull off this insurrection, I need allies, and Imogen is the closest thing I have to a potential one.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced she held back when she stabbed me. Elliot went in deep, twisting the knife for maximum damage. But Imogen’s strike was different—calculated, precise, and shallow. The knife barely penetrated, missing everything vital.
She could have killed me if she wanted to, but she chose not to.
And then there’s the cat. She didn’t have to take Princess in. She didn’t have to feed or care for her. She could have easily left the poor thing to starve in that penthouse, or worse.
But she didn’t. And all of that leads me to believe there’s something there. Something I can work with.
“I’ll be fine on my own,” I tell the guard who is shadowing me toward the building entrance.
“Mr. Mercer’s orders are to?—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Malcolm’s orders are,” I snap. “I’m going to see a goddamn cat, not plan a jailbreak. Wait in the car.”
He looks uncertain, then reluctantly nods. “We’ll be right outside, Mrs. Mercer. Call if you need anything.”
I flash him a tight smile. “Believe me, if I need anything, you’ll be the last person I call.”
Once I’m inside, I have to jump through a few more hoops and wait for the doorman to call up to Imogen’s penthouse before I’m allowed into the private elevator that whisks me up to the top floor.
When I knock, there’s a long pause before the door swings open. Imogen stands there in designer loungewear with her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She blinks at me like I’m the last person she expected to see.
“Quinn? What are you doing here?”
I force a casual smile. “I came to see the cat. I would’ve called first, except…”
“Malcolm probably doesn’t let you use the phone without his supervision.”
At least she understands, even if it is almost embarrassing to admit. She doesn’t step aside though. Instead, she gives me a slow up-and-down look.
“So you really came all this way to see a cat?” she asks.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
She studies me for another long moment, her green eyes searching mine for whatever hidden agenda she assumes I must have. Finally, she steps back and waves me inside with a dramatic sweep of her arm.
“By all means, come in. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa and all that bullshit.”
Her penthouse is just as stunning as the one she loaned us before, with an open concept layout and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Detroit. The furniture and artwork is all modern but tasteful, with splashes of deep emerald here and there that match her eyes. The place makes Malcolm’s house look like a funeral home by comparison.
“Nice place,” I say, following her into the living room.
“It should be, after how much I paid for it.” She moves around the room slowly, watching me with undisguised curiosity. “Your cat is probably in the sunroom. That’s where she likes to nap.”
I follow Imogen down the hallway to find Princess sprawled across a chaise lounge in the glass-enclosed sunroom, soaking up a patch of afternoon light. She lifts her head when I enter, and narrows her eyes slightly.
“Hey, you,” I say softly, approaching slowly with my hand out. “Remember me?”
To my surprise, Princess stretches lazily before padding across the cushion toward me. She sniffs my fingers, then butts her head against my palm with a rumbling purr.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I laugh, scratching behind her ears as she arches into my touch. “She actually remembers me.”
“Or she just likes the smell of your hand lotion,” Imogen says from the doorway, watching us with an unreadable expression.
I look up, still smiling. “Thank you. For taking care of her, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No, I didn’t,” she agrees, crossing her arms. “So why do you care about this cat so much? I would’ve thought you might have more on your mind than finding a pet-sitter.”
I consider my words carefully. This could be my opening, my chance to feel her out. “I don’t think innocent things should suffer because of the machinations of powerful, dangerous people,” I say, stroking Princess’s soft fur. “It’s not her fault that the world around her is fucked up.”
I hesitate, then add, “That’s why I couldn’t kill Celine either. She didn’t deserve it, no matter what Elliot wanted.”
Imogen’s face is still perfectly composed, but something shifts in her eyes. Understanding, maybe? Or maybe it’s pity.
“Well, aren’t you just a little saint?” There’s some obvious derision in her tone, but less bite than I expected. “How does it feel to stand on your moral high ground and judge the rest of us for being so heartless?”
“I’m not judging anyone,” I say quietly. “I’m just trying to make choices I can live with.”
“Choices?” She barks out a sharp laugh. “What fucking choices? Have you already forgotten what almost happened to you for choosing not to complete a votum?” She paces the room in her designer slippers. “None of us have real choices here, Quinn. You proved that yourself.”
I watch her carefully, noting the tension in her shoulders and the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.
“We all have to play the game,” she continues. “We dance to Malcolm’s tune, fighting for scraps of his approval like starving dogs and jockeying for position. One wrong move, one word out of line, and it’s a knife in your chest. Or worse.”
She stops suddenly, seeming to realize she’s said too much. Her eyes narrow on me. “Why are we talking about this? I thought you came to see the cat, not discuss Syndicate politics.”
But I caught that flash of bitterness when she said Malcolm’s name. Just like I caught the fear beneath her anger.
I stand up slowly, letting Princess jump down to the floor. “Maybe I just wanted to know if I was the only one who feels like I’m slowly suffocating in this arrangement.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I think I’ve miscalculated. That she’ll tell Malcolm about my little fishing expedition the minute I leave.
Then her lips curve into a humorless smile. “Honey, we’re all suffocating. Some of us have just gotten really good at holding our breath.”
That unguarded moment of honesty gives me the opening I’ve been waiting for. I settle back down, and Princess immediately jumps into my lap like she belongs there.
“Why did you join in the first place?” I ask as I scratch under the cat’s chin. “If you knew what you were signing up for—what Malcolm might ask you to do—why become part of the Syndicate at all?”
She hesitates, and for a second I think I’ve pushed too far. But then she walks to a small bar cart in the corner of the sunroom and pours two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass.
“Would you like some?” she asks, holding up the bottle.
“No, thank you.” I shake my head. “I need to keep a clear head around Malcolm.”
Something like understanding flashes in her eyes. She downs half her drink in one go, then stares out the window at the Detroit skyline.
“I didn’t exactly volunteer,” she says, finally. “Malcolm offered me membership after he had my sister killed.”
“What?”
A small sigh escapes her lips. “It’s a long, sordid story. I won’t bore you with the details. The fact of the matter is that he offered me a place at the table to make up for her death.”
“Jesus,” I whisper. “And you accepted?”
“What choice did I have?” Imogen knocks back the rest of her drink, her eyes glittering with unshed tears or rage. Maybe both. “If I refused, I’d be joining my sister in the ground. But if I said yes, at least her death would mean something. At least I could build something from it.” She sets down her empty glass with a sharp click. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“I don’t know,” I admit honestly. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Sure you can. You’ve been in the game long enough to understand how it works. Your father must have made the same choice when Malcolm gave him his marker.”
The suggestion takes me by surprise, but only for a moment, and only because it hadn’t ever occurred to me. “No, I don’t think that’s how it went down with my father.”
Now it’s her turn to look surprised.
“You don’t know, do you?” She lowers her voice as she steps closer. “The only way into the Syndicate is through blood. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
“No, my father was invited because of his growing influence in Detroit. Because of what he built with Enigma.”
Imogen shakes her head slowly. “That’s not how Malcolm operates. He doesn’t invite people in because they’re successful. It goes deeper than that.”
It feels like my whole world just shifted beneath me. Princess jumps down from my lap as I stand abruptly.
“That can’t be right,” I say. But deep down, I know she’s telling the truth.
“Think about it,” Imogen says, but not in the harsh, dismissive way she was talking to me earlier. “In our hearts, underneath all the bullshit, we’re all the same. We all joined to make someone’s death mean something.”
I think about my father—the man who raised me, who built Enigma from nothing, who loved me fiercely until the day he died.
Who was he mourning when Malcolm came calling? Whose death was he trying to avenge?
“No.” I shake my head, but the denial feels weak even to my own ears. “My father would have told me if?—”
But would he have? He protected me from so many things over the years. I didn’t even find out about the fucking marker he tattooed on my body until after he died. So it’s not like this is the first time I’m wondering what else he never got around to telling me.
Princess winds around my ankles, meowing softly, but I barely notice. My mind is racing, flipping through memories, searching for clues I might have missed.
“I have to go,” I say suddenly, nearly tripping over the cat in my hurry to reach the door. “I need to…”
I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. What do I need? Answers. The truth. Something solid to stand on when it feels like everything I know is suddenly falling apart.
Imogen follows me to the door and gives me a surprisingly sympathetic look. “Quinn, wait. Look, I didn’t mean to drop all of this on you. I just assumed you knew.”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, even though this whole situation is anything but fine. “Thank you for taking care of Princess. And for… for telling me the truth.”
She hesitates, then reaches out and gives me a half-hug that’s brief but still comforting. “Be careful with what you do with that truth. Malcolm doesn’t like people asking too many questions.”
It’s a warning that I know firsthand to be true. I nod stiffly, then hurry out the door before either of us can say anything else.
In the elevator, I lean against the wall and wonder again who my father lost and why the hell he never told me.
Fuck, will I ever live long enough to learn all the secrets that died with him?