Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

12. Quinn

12

QUINN

My mind races with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as we weave through the Detroit streets on our drive back home.

I exchanged phone numbers with Willow before we left, and she promised to call me once Victor gets a hit on the messages we’re hoping to trace. As soon as that was done, I practically ran out of the warehouse like my hair was on fire.

Her words from our conversation in the living room keep echoing in my head, and I’m not sure why I’m letting it all bother me so much.

The way she talked about Nico, Killian, and Atlas—my captors, my enemies —with such certainty, has me rattled. It was as if she could still see some kind of future for the four of us.

But the fact of the matter is that the future she saw doesn’t exist anymore. Those feelings don’t exist between us anymore, and I can’t imagine a scenario where they might magically come back.

Still, the whole conversation has left me feeling vulnerable and raw, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Those feelings are weaknesses in my current situation, and I sure as hell can’t afford that shit. I have too many people depending on me. People who need me to stay as strong and cautious and cold as possible if I expect to keep leading them through this fucking nightmare.

Nico says something about lunch, and I almost answer before I catch myself and look out the window instead. The truth is that I’m fucking starving after only eating a piece of toast this morning, but I can’t keep playing this game of pretending like everything is peaches and fucking roses again while I’m so torn up inside.

They hurt me. All three of them. Physically, mentally, emotionally—all of it. They took my trust and whatever deeper feelings I was starting to have and pissed it all away, so if I have to go on a fucking hunger strike to keep reminding myself that the enemies of my enemy aren’t necessarily my friends, then I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.

Being hungry and stuck in my thoughts for most of the day still beats the hell out of being chained to a pipe in the basement.

God, I haven’t been this emotionally fucked up since my dad died. And I definitely wasn’t prepared for the visceral reminder of his death today. Just being in that warehouse, surrounded by those who knew him, brought it all crashing back. No matter how many times I’ve told myself that I’ve moved on and that I’m all better, something like this comes along and reminds me that there’s still an open, gaping wound in my heart that is refusing to heal.

I can still vividly recall those agonizing days after his body was brought back to me, battered and lifeless. The numbness that seeped into my bones, leaving me feeling cold and hollow. And when the numbness finally starts to go away, it’s only replaced by an all-consuming grief that burns through me, threatening to swallow me whole.

I had to force myself to keep moving, to keep pushing forward, if only to honor his legacy. Taking control of the gang, stepping into his shoes—it was the only way I knew how to cope, to make him proud even after he was gone.

But I was just a broken daughter grieving the loss of her father, trying my damnedest to muddle through the pain and keep it all together.

The memory is still so raw, so visceral, that it leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable all over again. I can feel the others’ lingering, questioning glances burning into me from the corners of their eyes, but I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, jaw clenched until we pull up in front of the house—my house—again.

I step out of the car without a word and hurry to the front door, desperate for some time alone. Everything churning inside me is pointing to a breakdown, and I’ll be goddamned if these men are going to see even a second of weakness from me.

My feet carry me to my father’s old study, a room I’ve avoided since he died. The air feels thick with memories as I enter, and I’m not sure what I’m even doing in here until my eyes land on the worn leather case tucked away in the corner.

With trembling hands, I pull it out and unzip it, smiling a little to myself as I reveal his prized knife collection. I run my hands over antique handles carved from wood and ivory and solid metal, wishing I knew all the countless stories that are tied up in each one.

Pulling out an old carved hunting knife and a whetstone, I begin the ritual I’ve watched my father do so many times over the years. Dragging the stone over the dulled blade instantly begins to soothe my frayed nerves, and it doesn’t take long before the soft scraping sound starts to fill the room, drowning out most of the noise in my head.

I miss him. God, I miss him so much it physically aches. The weight of leadership, of survival, of this whole fucked up situation crashes down on me, and hot, unwelcome tears begin to roll down my cheeks. What I wouldn’t give for his steady presence, his wisdom, his unwavering support. I’d trade everything I hold dear for just a few more minutes with him, for a chance to hug him and hear him say that everything really is going to be okay.

Because right now?

It feels like everything is fucked and nothing is going to be okay ever again.

The door creaks open behind me. Without thinking, I whirl around, brandishing the freshly sharpened knife. Killian stands in the doorway, his eyes widening more from my tear-streaked face than the blade in my hand.

I blink rapidly and brush away the tears, silently cursing myself for letting him see me like this. “I’m not in the mood for any bullshit, Killian,” I snarl, trying to keep the emotions on my face from spilling over into my voice. “Just go. Leave me alone.”

Killian doesn’t leave though. He stays, watching me with his perceptive gaze—the man who’s watched me for so long. Who seems to see so much that I don’t want him to see.

“I didn’t know everything that happened with your father,” he says quietly, his eyes searching mine.

A harsh laugh escapes my lips. “Of course you didn’t know. The Princes were his enemies, just like you’re supposed to be my enemies. You and the others probably threw a fucking party when he died.”

The words taste bitter on my tongue, but I can’t stop them from spilling out. The anger, the grief, the sheer helplessness of it all—it’s too much to keep bottled up inside.

Killian takes a step closer, his expression unreadable. “That’s not true, siren. We may have had our differences with your father, but we never wanted him dead. And we certainly didn’t celebrate when it happened.”

I grunt, shaking my head in disbelief. “Right. Because you’re all such stand-up guys. Forgive me if I have a hard time buying that bullshit.”

Killian takes another step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. I tighten my grip on the knife, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

“Look, Quinn,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I won’t deny that we were enemies, rivals with Enigma. But celebrating your father’s death? That’s not who we are.”

I start to say something but he continues, undeterred.

“When he died, we assumed everything here would fall apart. But it didn’t. You stepped up, took control with a steady hand. Nothing crumbled. If anything, you made the gang stronger. That’s not something we could ignore or take lightly.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, ripping open old wounds and soothing the ache in my chest at the same time. The tears that I’ve finally gotten in check are threatening to fall again, and before I can stop it, a sob escapes my lips.

Then another. And another.

I cover my mouth with my free hand, trying desperately to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

Killian watches me for a few moments, silently observing like he always does as I struggle to get my shit together.

“What does it feel like?” he finally asks. “To miss someone that much?”

The question catches me off guard, and I find myself answering before I can think better of it.

“It feels like a part of you is missing that will never come back. There’s this hole inside you, this emptiness that threatens to swallow you up if you get too close to it.”

My voice cracks, and I hate how vulnerable I sound. But once I start, I can’t seem to stop. “Every day, you wake up and for a split second, you forget. And then it hits you all over again, like a sucker punch to the gut. And you have to learn how to breathe again, how to exist in a world where they’re gone.”

Killian nods, his face an unreadable mask. His composure grates on my already frayed nerves. Here I am, spilling my guts out, and he’s standing there like we’re discussing the fucking weather.

Anger flares up inside me, hot and sudden. “What about you, huh?” I snap, my grip tightening on the knife. “You ever lose a parent, Killian? Do you even know what it feels like? Or did you just not give a shit when they died?”

I watch his face closely, searching for any crack in his chiseled features. Part of me wants to see him hurt, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain that’s tearing me apart inside. But another part—well, I don’t know what the fuck that part wants, if I’m being honest. And lashing out like this is a hell of a lot easier than therapy.

A look I can’t read passes over Killian’s face. His eyes darken and his jaw tightens as he begins to speak.

“Both of my parents are dead,” he says, his voice flat. “But it’s not the same. My mother tried to kill me when I was eight years old. When I killed her instead, all I felt was relief.”

I blink, the shock of his words jolting me out of my own feelings, if only for a few seconds. “What?”

His gaze doesn’t waver as he continues. “My father was never in the picture. It was just me and my mother. She…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “She was violent. Mean. Abusive.”

My grip on the knife loosens as I listen, stunned into silence.

“When I was eight, she tried to drown me in the river,” Killian says, his voice eerily calm. “I fought back. In the struggle, I ended up drowning her instead.”

I feel the blood drain from my face as I try to process what he’s telling me. The image of a young Killian fighting for his life against his own mother is almost too much to bear.

“After that, I left her body and lived on the streets,” he continues. “Did what I had to do to survive.”

I stare at him, my mind reeling. The knife in my hand suddenly feels heavy, and I let it clatter to the floor. This quiet, violent man I thought I knew—there’s so much more to him than I ever realized. A deeper pain than I could have imagined.

My throat feels tight as I try to process everything he’s told me. The abuse, the struggle for survival, the weight of taking a life when he was so young—even if it was self-defense. It’s almost too much to comprehend.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. What could I possibly say? How do I respond to something like that? The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.

Before I can figure out what to say, he steps closer. His hand reaches out, gently tilting my chin up so I’m looking directly into his eyes.

“Quinn,” he says softly, his voice low and intense. “As painful as mourning is, it’s a gift in a way. You loved someone enough to be sad when they were gone. I never had that with my own mother.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I feel fresh tears welling up in my eyes, and Killian’s thumb brushes them away gently.

Without thinking, I find myself leaning into his touch. My chest aches with a confusing mix of emotions—grief for my father, sympathy for Killian, anger and apprehension at the situation we’re all in right now.

It’s a lot. It’s too much.

I stand there, frozen, as his hand drops from my face. He takes a step back, his eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Finally, he clears his throat. “I should go. You probably need some time alone.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He turns and walks to the door, pausing for a moment with his hand on the knob. He looks back at me but doesn’t say anything else, that unreadable mask fully in place again.

And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with a head full of unhelpful thoughts.

I stare at the closed door, my head spinning from everything that just happened. But as I stand there, I realize something has shifted inside me. The ache in my chest isn’t quite as sharp as it was before. It’s still there, a dull throb that I know will never fully go away, but it feels more manageable now.

I take a deep breath, my eyes scanning the room. My father’s presence is everywhere—in the worn leather of his chair, the faded spines of his favorite books, the lingering scent of his cologne. For the first time since his death, being surrounded by his things doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like coming home.

My gaze lands on his desk, and suddenly, I know what I need to do. If I want answers about what’s really going on, I need to start digging. And what better place to start than right here, in the heart of my father’s world?