27. Quinn
27
QUINN
The cab pulls to a stop half a block from Mickey’s bar, and I slip the driver a handful of crumpled bills before ducking out. My heart is racing but still steadier than it was when I got dropped off at the safe house. I’m exhausted and my body is aching from the marathon sex with my men, but it’s a good ache
It’s a reminder that I’m still alive and still fighting.
I wait and scan the street in both directions before darting toward the back entrance of the bar. The alleyway is dark and damp, and it smells like piss and stale beer, but it’s still my best option to avoid being seen by Malcolm’s hired goons.
I slip inside the building and nod quickly to Mickey as he looks up from behind the bar. He gestures with his chin toward the door leading to the basement, no questions asked. That’s why I’ve always liked Mickey—he’s loyal as hell and knows how to keep his fucking mouth shut.
The basement is dark even with the lights on, but I’ve pretty much memorized my way down the narrow staircase and past the storage shelves of liquor, beer, and wine. There’s just enough light that hits the back wall for me to find the panel that slides open and reveals the makeshift tunnel that connects to the new Blood and Ink.
Part of me wishes I could just keep walking past this escape route, disappear into the night with my men, and never look back. But that’s not how this works. That’s not how I work.
My dad taught me not to run from my problems. It’s a hell of a lot more satisfying to burn them to the ground.
The tunnel is musty and cold, and I have to crouch in a few places where the ceiling dips, but it leads me back to where I’m supposed to be. When I come up the stairs from my own basement into the future tattoo parlor, I’m surprised to find it’s not empty. Damon, one of my old Enigma members, is painting a wall while Tanner from Carnage is installing some shelving.
It’s not the first time some of my former members—and even some of the former Princes—have stopped by to help with the renovation, but it still makes me feel the same pang of regret when I think of how much they’ve all had to sacrifice because of my decisions.
There will be time to apologize and make things right with all my people later though. We just need to make it through one crisis at a time.
They both turn when they hear me, and I see their shoulders relax when they recognize me.
“Quinn,” Damon says with a nod. “We didn’t expect you back tonight.”
“Just checking on progress,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not fresh from getting fucked senseless by three men. Like I’m not covering Malcolm’s bruises. Like I’m still the leader they remember.
“It’s coming along,” Tanner says, gesturing to the half-finished shelves. “We should have most of the interior cleared out and repainted by end of the week.”
I nod, grateful for their loyalty as much as their presence right now. It’s strange how Enigma and Carnage have melded together, brought closer by shared loss and shared enemies. I touch the line I carved through my chest tattoo and wonder if scars can heal into something stronger than what was there before.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it more than they could possibly know. “Both of you.”
They don’t ask where I’ve been. They don’t comment on the slight limp in my walk or the exhaustion in my eyes. They just nod and get back to work, offering me the only thing I need right now—a few minutes of peaceful fucking normalcy.
I check the time and curse under my breath. Yeah, I’ve been gone way too long. Malcolm’s watchdogs will be getting suspicious if I don’t show up soon. With a final glance around the space that represents my only real hope for freedom, I slip back out through the front door and cross the street. The black SUV sticks out like a sore thumb, and seeing one of Malcolm’s men jump out to open the door for me without saying a word just cements the fact that I’m still very much under house arrest. Still very much living and breathing on his terms.
That’s just the way it’ll have to be for now.
The headlights of Malcolm’s SUV flash as we pull into his driveway, briefly shining on the pretentious fucking mansion I’m forced to call home. My stomach knots at the thought of going back inside and being underneath the same roof again, but I’m clinging to the strength I found in my men’s arms tonight.
This won’t be my life forever. Just long enough to put my plan in motion. Just long enough to turn the Dark Lotus Syndicate against him. Just long enough to watch him bleed.
Each day with Malcolm feels worse than the last. His eyes follow me everywhere. Seeing him around the house—always seemingly just a few feet away—makes me feel like I’m suffocating. And when he touches me?
It makes me want to scrub my fucking skin raw.
But I can endure. I’ve survived worse.
I’ve made it through gun fights and car chases. I’ve been stabbed repeatedly. I survived The Saint and all the ones who came before him. Anyone who doubts me can go and look at my former enemies now.
I’ll survive Malcolm too.
As I walk up the steps to the front door, I straighten my spine and lift my chin. I replay Atlas’s words in my head. “ You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known .” I remember the feel of Killian’s and Nico’s lips on my bruises, reclaiming what Malcolm tried to take. I think of Nico’s promise. “ You’ll bathe in his fucking blood .”
I can do this.
The house is quiet when I enter, and most of the lights have been dimmed. It’s late in the evening but still probably too early for Malcolm to be asleep.
That’s fine though. As much as I don’t want to see him, I still have a part to play, and I’m going to give the performance of a fucking lifetime.
I remember what Imogen told me during one of our conversations about how Malcolm responds to flattery. He wants to be admired and respected, not just obeyed. The best way to stay on his good side is to feed his ego, to make him think he’s winning.
Stroking fragile egos isn’t something I have a ton of practice doing, but it’s a means to an end, and I’ll gladly suck it up and push through if it gets me what I need.
I find Malcolm in the master bedroom, propped up against pillows with a book in his hands. He looks almost normal, almost human—if I ignore the coldness in his eyes and the calculating way he watches me enter.
“You’re home late.” He looks me up and down, then closes his book. “I was beginning to worry.”
Bullshit. He doesn’t worry. He schemes and controls.
His men have chauffeured me to and from my building, and have reported my every move. He thinks he knows exactly where I’ve been, and for exactly how long.
“I’ve been at Blood and Ink,” I say anyway, reminding myself that I’m supposed to be playing the part of his obedient wife. “I didn’t mean to lose track of time, but the place is coming along so much better than I expected.”
He studies me, but I meet his gaze without flinching. I’m not challenging him, but I’m not cowering either. I have to walk this line perfectly.
“You seem different tonight,” he says flatly, and for a terrible moment I wonder if he can smell my men on me, if the shower somehow wasn’t enough to wash away the evidence of where I’ve been and what I’ve done.
Fuck, I’d love more than anything to see his face if I came clean and admitted it all. That’s for a different time though. I take a deep breath and swallow back all the hate and anger I want to hurl in his direction. Instead, I do the opposite. I apologize.
“I am different,” I say, moving closer to the bed. “I’ve been thinking about what happened earlier between us, and how I reacted.” Saying these words makes me sick, but I push through anyway. “You were right. I’m starting to see the value in this marriage. In… every way.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, and a small smile plays at his lips. “Is that so?”
Have I really surprised him, or is he just playing along?
I nod, schooling my expression into what I hope looks like timid acceptance rather than the disgust I’m feeling.
“I just need a little more time,” I say, doing my best impression of vulnerability. “But I’m ready to start trying to be a real wife to you.”
The revulsion I feel as I pull back the covers and slide into his bed is almost overwhelming. I have to breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging, and it’s a serious exercise in self-control to keep from jumping up and running out of the room.
Everything I’m doing seems to be working though.
Malcolm’s smile widens as he sets his book aside and turns toward me, then pulls me close against his chest. His body is warm against mine, but it feels all wrong—like pressing against a mannequin wearing human skin.
“I knew you would see reason eventually,” he says, and I can hear the smug arrogance in his tone even though I can’t bring myself to look at his face when he’s this close to me. “You’re too smart not to recognize a good arrangement when you see it.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. His arm is heavy across my waist, and his hand is resting possessively on my hip. Thankfully, he isn’t pushing it any further at the moment. I’m pretty sure my little vulnerability act has just bought me a little more time before he expects me to be “ready,” but I know the clock is ticking.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. I imagine I’m back at the safe house, surrounded by the men who actually love me. I feel Nico’s breath on my neck, Atlas’s strong arms around me, and Killian’s lips against my skin.
Soon , I tell myself as Malcolm’s breathing grows deep and even beside me. Soon this will all be over, and he’ll pay for every second of this torture .
I fall asleep thinking about my men and dreaming about Malcolm’s blood.
I’m back in that alley, my back pressed against brick, surrounded by Bullets members. Their hands are everywhere, tearing at my clothes, pinning me down. I try to fight but there are too many of them. I scream but no sound comes out.
Then the faces change. It’s not the Bullets anymore—it’s Ambrose, with his twisted smile and intelligent, scheming eyes. “You’re mine now,” he whispers. “You’ve always been mine.”
But when I look again, it’s Malcolm looming over me, his cold, dead eyes peering out at me from the darkness. “Everything about you is mine,” he says, using the same words from his office. “Your name. Your body. Your future.”
I try to run, but my legs won’t move. I try to scream again, but his hand clamps over my mouth. Behind him, I see my mother’s face, her eyes sad and haunted as she watches me struggle.
“You can’t escape,” Malcolm tells me as his features start to blur. “No one escapes me.”
I jerk awake with a gasp, and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Sweat has flattened my hair to my forehead, and my body trembles like I’m coming down from a bad high. It takes me a second to remember where I am, and when I do, the reality is almost as bad as the nightmare.
Malcolm’s house. Malcolm’s bedroom. Malcolm’s bed.
And now that I’m fully awake, I can feel his eyes on me. Without saying anything, I turn my head slowly to look at him. He’s propped up on one elbow beside me, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
Fuck, he’s creepy. How long has he been watching me?
“You were having a bad dream.” He isn’t asking, and I feel way too exposed like this—in his bed and at his mercy.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I’m fine. It was just a dream.”
His eyes move across my face with an unsettling look that’s almost like… hunger. “You look like her when you sleep.”
He reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from my face, and I flinch before I can stop myself. “Like who?”
“Your mother. You have her features. Her spirit.”
For all the horrible shit he’s done to me, I’ve never wanted him dead more than I do right this instant.
I move back slightly, putting a few more inches between us. My mind is racing, trying to make sense of the way he’s looking at me. “Did you know her?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“Not as well as I would have liked to.” He shrugs, and there’s something in his tone that makes me want to shower for the next ten hours straight. “But I can tell you have a lot of her in you.”
Suddenly, I understand with sickening clarity that Malcolm’s interest in me isn’t just about power or control. It isn’t even about sex. It’s twisted up with whatever fucked up feelings he had for my mother.
I need to get out of this bed. Out of this room. Out of this house.
Time for another acting lesson.
I slide my legs off the edge of the mattress, doing my best to make sure my movements don’t look hurried or panicked. “I should get ready.” I force a sense of calm I don’t feel into my voice. “I’m meeting a friend today for lunch. Someone who can help me rebuild Enigma.”
Malcolm watches me, his expression calculating. “A friend?” The way he says it makes the word sound like it’s something foreign. Hell, it probably is to him.
“An ally,” I try instead, knowing that’s a concept he understands better. “Someone with connections who can help strengthen my position.” I hate myself for what I’m about to add, but I know it’ll play into his ego. “Our position.”
He nods slowly, apparently satisfied with my explanation. “Fine. Just remember where your true alliance lies now.”
I nod back, already heading for the bathroom. “I won’t forget.”
The door is barely closed behind me before I’m leaning over the sink and fighting the urge to vomit. The way he looked at me and talked about my mother? Jesus, what a sick fuck.
I turn the shower on as hot as it will go and step under the scalding water to start scrubbing at my skin until it’s raw.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed and out the door, still moving as quickly as I can without looking like I’m running away. Even without turning back to look until I’m safely inside the waiting SUV, I can feel Malcolm watching me from the upstairs window the whole time.
And I can still feel his eyes burning into my back even after we’re miles away from that palatial prison.
A little while later, and I’m walking to the familiar exterior of what looks like an old warehouse but in fact is one of the warmest, coziest homes I’ve ever been lucky enough to visit.
Willow looks surprised when she opens her door and finds me standing here. Her eyebrows rise even higher as she looks over my shoulder and sees that I’m here alone.
“Hey, Quinn. Where are the guys?”
I try to force a smile but a grimace is the best I can muster. “They’re not here. Can we talk inside? Please?”
Her expression immediately shifts from surprise to concern as she steps to the side and waves me in. “Of course. Come in. Are you okay?”
As soon as she closes the door behind us, I feel a little bit of the tension leave my shoulders. I never fully realize how tense and anxious I get around Malcolm until I get a glimpse of what my life used to be like.
My way of living might not have ever met anyone’s definition of normal, but it was mine. It was the life I chose, and nowhere reminds me of that life more than this place—even if there are a few stark differences.
Like her sweet baby babbling in the background. The house smells like coffee and baby powder, and it’s all so normal that it makes my throat tight.
“I’m fine,” I lie to answer her question because… fuck, where do I even begin?
Willow gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she leads me into the living room where I see her baby smiling up from her crib.
“She just went down for her nap,” Willow says softly, a smile softening her face as she looks at her daughter. “Which means she’ll talk to herself for about ten minutes, and then we’ll have about an hour before all hell breaks loose again.”
She gestures for me to sit on the couch, then disappears into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two mugs of coffee. She hands one to me before sitting down at the other end of the couch and tucking her feet up under her.
“So,” she says, wrapping her hands around her mug. “Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I take a long sip of coffee, using the moment to gather my thoughts. “It’s complicated.”
She offers a wry smile at what’s got to be the understatement of the fucking century. “When isn’t it?”
I start talking, but I’m careful to leave out the most dangerous details. I tell her about Malcolm—just that we’re married now, not the circumstances that led to it. I talk about trying to rebuild Enigma, and how much guilt I still carry for not being able to protect my members when shit hit the fan.
Willow listens without interrupting, nodding along and flashing knowing looks at some of the details. She’s been in this world long enough to fill in at least some of the blanks for herself.
“And your men?” she asks when I finally run out of things to say. “Where do they fit into all this?”
I look down at my coffee, unsure of how much I should tell her. I trust Willow with my life, but some things aren’t mine to share. “They’re safe. As safe as they can be, anyway. We’re keeping our distance for now. It’s better that way.”
Willow studies me for a long moment. “That’s bullshit.” There’s no accusation or heat in her voice, just concern. “But I understand that there are things you can’t tell me. Things that would put me and my men and the baby at risk if I knew.”
I nod, grateful that she really does understand. “I didn’t want to drag you into this. I just needed…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding pathetic.
“A friendly face?” Willow suggests. “Someone to lean on?”
“Yeah.” I nod and swallow hard. “Something like that.”
The baby stirs in her crib, making small snuffling noises before settling back into sleep. Willow watches her for a moment, and her face softens again.
“You know,” she says quietly, “there was a time when I thought I’d never have this. A home. A family. Safety.” She looks back at me. “I wouldn’t have any of it if it weren’t for you.”
I shake my head. “You don’t owe me anything, Willow.”
“This isn’t about owing,” she insists. “It’s about caring. And whatever is going on with you right now, I care. We care. We’re here for you, however you need us to be.”
Her words hit me harder than I expected, cracking open something in my chest that I’ve been trying to keep sealed shut. I blink to fight back the sudden rush of emotion.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, then take a deep breath to get myself back together. I’ll be damned if I’m going to start crying now—mainly because I’m not sure I’d be able to stop.
We talk a while longer, about lighter things like her baby, her plans for the future, stories about her men that make me laugh. It’s only a short break from the nightmare my life has become, but god, it’s a necessary one.
Eventually, though, I know I need to leave soon. Malcolm’s men are waiting for me, and I can’t stay in one place for too long without raising suspicion. Especially after how late I stayed out with my men just yesterday.
As I stand to leave, Willow catches my arm. “Wait,” she says. “I have an idea.”
She disappears into another room, then comes back a minute later with Victor. He nods to me, friendly enough but still serious as always.
“Willow filled me in,” he says, pulling something small from his pocket. “Not with a lot of details, just that you might need a lifeline.”
He holds out an old school, basic burner phone. One of the tiny ones that flip open. “It’s programmed with our numbers,” he explains. “But there’s also a panic button on the side. Press it three times quickly, and it’ll send an SOS ping to our phones with your GPS location.”
I stare at the phone, then at Victor and Willow, not sure what to say.
“It’s not fancy,” he continues, placing the phone in my hand. “But if you’re ever in real trouble and can’t call or text, this gives you another option. A lifeline.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, genuinely confused. “Any debt you might have owed me was paid a long time ago. Why would you do this?”
Willow steps forward and pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s not about debt,” she says against my ear. “This is what friends do for each other.”
I stand frozen for a moment, clutching the phone in my hand. Then, slowly, I hug her back.
“I don’t have many friends,” I admit when she finally pulls away.
Willow smiles. “Well, you have us, whether you like it or not.”
I slip the phone into my pocket, grateful for how tiny and unobtrusive it is. “Thank you.” This time the words come easier.
As I leave their house, I feel a strange mixture of emotions. There’s the normal fear and dread at returning to Malcolm. Then there’s the always-present longing for my men. But also something I haven’t felt in a long time—the simple comfort of knowing someone has my back, no strings attached.