Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

18. Quinn

18

QUINN

I’m not here.

This isn’t happening.

Those words are on repeat in my head as I fight against the panic. No, I refuse to be a victim again. I’m Quinn fucking Kent, and I won’t go down without a fight.

With a surge of adrenaline, I thrust my hips upward, throwing the attacker off balance. His grip loosens for just a second, but it’s enough. I twist my body, breaking free from his hold.

My elbow connects with his face, and I hear a satisfying crunch. He howls in pain, reeling back. I scramble to my feet, my hand finally reaching for the gun at my waist.

But he’s fast, lunging at me before I can fully draw the weapon. We crash into the dresser, sending the gun and half a dozen framed photos clattering to the floor. Glass shatters around us as we grapple for control.

I knee him in the groin, and he doubles over. Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, I slam my forehead into his. The impact sends shockwaves through my skull, but it’s worth it to hear him cry out in pain again.

He staggers backward, blood seeping through his mask.

“Who sent you?” I snarl, my voice raw with fury as I raise my fists.

He doesn’t answer, just charges at me again. But this time, I’m ready. I sidestep his attack, grabbing his arm and using his momentum to slam him into the wall.

My fingers find the edge of his mask, and I yank hard, determined to see this bastard’s face. But he twists away at the last second, slipping from my hands.

Before I can react, he’s out the door, his footsteps thundering down the stairs. I start to chase after him, but he’s already gone by the time I reach the front door.

I stand in the doorway, staring after him as the adrenaline slowly drains away. The reality of what just happened begins to sink in, and I feel my knees buckle as my whole body starts to shake.

My mind is reeling, but I have enough sense to close the door and lock it before bracing myself against the sturdy frame. I’m still shaking and I know I need to calm down. I need to gather my thoughts and think rationally for a minute before?—

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway jolts me back to reality. For a split-second, I panic, thinking the intruder has come back to finish the job he started.

But then I listen closer, and my shoulders relax just slightly. I know the sound of that engine. Killian and Atlas are home.

“Shit,” I say out loud as I look at the glass and debris scattered all the way down the stairs from my bedroom.

Yeah, no way to cover that shit up.

Not that I want to keep the attack a secret, at least not from them. But because I’m just not ready to relive it. Or talk about it. Or deal with all the crazy fucking chaos that seems to swirl around me non-stop these days.

I dash to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection stares back at me, wild-eyed and disheveled.

If that reflection was a friend, I’d tell her she was looking pretty fucking rough around the edges.

“Quinn? You home? Killian’s voice echoes through the foyer.

I force myself to step out of the bathroom, plastering what I hope is a casual smile on my face. “Hey, guys, how was?—”

My voice catches as I see their expressions change. Killian’s eyes narrow, scanning the stairs behind me. Atlas takes a step forward, concern etched on his face.

“What the fuck happened here?” Atlas asks, his gaze fixed on the second-floor landing where it’s easy to see the overturned dresser and shattered glass littering the floor.

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My hands start to tremble, and I clench them into fists, willing them to stop.

I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Someone broke in. Tried to attack me upstairs.” I gesture vaguely toward the mess behind me, trying to keep my tone matter-of-fact. “I fought him off. He ran.”

Killian’s eyes darken, and Atlas takes another step forward, his hand reaching out as if to touch me. I flinch involuntarily, and he stops, his arm dropping to his side.

“Are you hurt?” Killian asks, his voice tight as his eyes move up and down my body, no doubt taking a mental inventory of every cut and scrape.

I shake my head. “I’m fine. Really.”

I’m not, but I need to be. I can’t afford to fall apart now.

“Did you see his face?” Atlas presses.

“No,” I admit, meeting Atlas’s eyes. “He wore a mask. But he was skilled, trained. This didn’t feel like some random break-in.”

Killian’s jaw clenches. “The Saint?”

I nod slowly. “That’s my first thought. But why? If he still believed you all were spying on me, he wouldn’t need to send someone else.”

The implications of that statement hang heavy in the air. If The Saint isn’t buying our ruse anymore, we’re in deeper shit than we realized.

“He might have figured out we’re working together,” I say, voicing the fear that’s been gnawing at me since the attack. “If that’s the case, we need to reevaluate our entire strategy.”

Atlas runs a hand through his hair, his expression grim. “If he knows, we’ve lost our biggest advantage. We’re back to square one, with the added risk of him coming after all of us now.”

I blink, trying to focus on the conversation, but my thoughts keep slipping away before I can fully grasp them. The room feels too hot, too small. I’m not sure if it’s the after-effects of all the adrenaline in my system or some sort of PTSD response from all my old trauma, but I need to get it under control.

The last thing I need right now is for my body to start giving out on me.

“We need to…” I start, but the words trail off as a wave of nausea hits me. My skin prickles, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead.

Atlas is saying something, but his voice sounds distant, muffled. I nod, pretending to follow along, but the truth is that I’m barely holding it together.

“Quinn?” Killian’s voice cuts through the fog. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

I open my mouth to reassure him, but the lie won’t come. My legs feel wobbly, and I reach out to steady myself against the wall.

“I’m fine,” I manage to croak out, but even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds.

Killian steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines me. “You’re pale as a fucking ghost, and you’re shaking.”

I want to brush off his concern, to be the tough-as-nails Quinn they expect, but my body betrays me. A tremor runs through me, and I can’t stop it.

“It’s nothing,” I insist, but my voice wavers. “We need to focus on what this means for?—”

“Shit,” Killian interrupts, his gaze fixed on my side. “You’re bleeding.”

I look down, surprised to see a dark stain spreading across my shirt. How did I not notice that?

“Your stitches.” His expression is as carefully schooled as ever, but the tightness in his voice betrays at least a hint of emotion. Is he worried about me? “They must have torn during the fight.”

I stare down at my bloodstained shirt, feeling oddly detached from the situation. It’s like I’m watching this happen to someone else.

Killian’s voice cuts through my daze. “Come on, I need to take a look at that. Upstairs, now.”

I blink, trying to focus. “But we need to talk about?—”

“We’ll talk later. First, we deal with this.”

I glance at Atlas, half-expecting him to object. But he just nods, his gaze flicking from me to Killian and back again. “Go. I’ll clean up down here.”

Killian’s hand on my arm is surprisingly gentle but still insistent as he half-guides, half-pushes me up the stairs. I follow, my legs feeling like lead with each step.

We reach my bedroom, and I wince at the mess. The overturned dresser, shattered glass, and scattered belongings take me right back to the fight, right back to the trauma.

“I think I might throw up,” I say, more to myself than Killian.

He steers me toward the bed, steadying me for those last few steps. “Sit. I need to take a look at those stitches.”

I perch on the edge of the mattress, grateful to be off my feet and suddenly very aware of how close he is. He kneels in front of me, his eyes level with mine.

“I need you to take that shirt off for me.” His tone is even and commanding, and his deep voice soothes the wild panic inside me, just a little. “Can you do that, or do you need help?”

I shake my head, my fingers fumbling with the hem. “I’ve got it.”

I manage to shrug off the shirt, hissing quietly as the movement pulls at the opening wound. Killian’s eyes narrow as he examines me.

“Yeah, you definitely tore a few stitches,” he says, then disappears into the bathroom for a moment before returning with the first aid kit. “I can patch it up, but it’s going to hurt.”

Steeling myself, I give him a curt nod. “Do what you need to do.”

I grit my teeth as he starts to clean the wound. The sting of antiseptic is nothing compared to the memories that keep finding their way to the front of my mind. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it steady, but I can feel the tremors starting again.

No. Not now. I can’t fall apart in front of him .

I clench my fists, willing my body to stop betraying me. But it’s no use. The shaking intensifies, and I know Killian notices when his hands pause.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine. “This is a normal reaction after what you’ve been through.”

I bristle at his words, hating how easily he can read me. “I’m fine. Just finish patching me up.”

He sets the gauze aside and grimaces. “You’re not fine. I’ve seen you like this before, remember? It’s PTSD. You can’t just will it away.”

“Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me,” I bite out, pulling away from him. “You don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

“Maybe not exactly, but I know enough. We can’t control what triggers these memories. Trust me, I know.” He ignores my huffed breath, continuing anyway. “You think I don’t have my own demons? I can’t wade into a fucking lake without having flashbacks of my mother trying to drown me. Random things can set it off, and there’s no shame in that.”

His admission catches me off guard, and I feel some of my anger deflate. Still, I hate that he thinks he suddenly understands me so intimately, even if he can apparently relate to this weakness.

No.

Nope.

I’m not going down this road with him.

Instead, I glare at him with my jaw clenched tight. “I don’t need your fucking empathy. Just patch me up and leave me alone.”

He doesn’t flinch at my harsh tone. “I’m not going anywhere, siren. You can push all you want, but I’m staying right here.”

“Why?” I narrow my eyes, my pulse still racing far too fast. “Because you think you understand? You don’t know shit about what I’m going through.”

His eyes harden, but his hands remain gentle as he finishes cleaning the wound. “I know more than you think. And I know you’re trying to push me away because you’re scared.”

“Fuck off,” I growl, shoving at his chest. “I’m not scared. I’m pissed off.”

He doesn’t budge, just continues working on my stitches. “You can be both.”

I fall silent, seething as he finishes. He might be right, but I’m not in the mood to hear it. And I’m sure as hell not ready to admit it. The moment he’s done, I leap to my feet, ready to bolt from the room. But he’s faster than I expect.

His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist and yanking me back. Before I can react, he spins me around, pinning me against the wall. His body presses against mine, trapping me in place.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, struggling against his grip. But there’s not much force behind the words. My breath is coming faster, my pulse racing—and this time, it has nothing to do with PTSD or flashbacks.

He leans in, his eyes fixed on mine. “You’re scared, siren. And you’re trying to hide it behind anger and words.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat as he tightens his grip on my wrist. Being manhandled like this should feel threatening, but instead, it’s doing something else entirely to me. Something I don’t want to admit or analyze.

My arousal bubbles up, unwelcome, mingling with the flood of other confusing thoughts and feelings I’m having. I’m aware of my nipples hardening against the fabric of my bra, of the ache building deep in my core.

“You don’t want to be comforted,” he says, his voice low and intense. “You want me to take control. To make you feel something other than fear.”

I try to speak, but he cuts me off, his lips crashing down on mine. The kiss is rough, demanding, and it sends a jolt through my body.

His free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck. The sting of his teeth on my skin makes me gasp, and I can feel him smirk against my throat. His hand slides down my body, reaching for the button of my jeans.

I start to protest, but he silences me with another bruising kiss. His fingers find their way under the denim, stroking me through my panties, and I moan, unable to hold it in another second.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me to stop.”

But I can’t. Because even as my mind is screaming at me to push him away, my body is screaming the exact opposite—and my heart is stuck somewhere in between. All I know is that I don’t want this to end. As fucked up as it may be, this feels like exactly what I need.

His hands find the hem of my shirt, and in one swift move, he rips it over my head. I flinch at the sound of tearing fabric, but he doesn’t stop.

“Safe word,” he grunts against my lips. “Remind me what it is.”

The word jolts me back to reality—or whatever version of reality we’re currently inhabiting. My voice is hoarse as I force the word past my lips, whispering it against his as he kisses me like he’s trying to devour me.

“Use it,” he insists as he draws back suddenly, his eyes burning into mine. “If you want this to stop. You. Will. Use. It.”

His command sends a little thrill of electricity through me, lighting up my nerve endings.

“I will,” I whisper, knowing I won’t. Not unless?—

“Say it,” he demands.

“I will,” I agree, nodding fervently to make sure he believes me.

He searches my eyes for a long moment, as if trying to gauge the truth of my words. Finally, he seems to accept my answer, because he pulls me toward his room, his steps purposeful, mine stumbling as I try to keep up. There’s no time to think, to question, to feel anything but the raw, primal need that’s burning inside me.

He pushes the bedroom door open and gives me a moment to find my feet again.

“Get on the bed,” he orders, and I scramble to obey, my hands shaking as I clamber onto the mattress.

In an instant, he’s on top of me, his weight pinning me face down as I arch my back, wanting to feel every inch of him against me.

A strangled moan escapes my throat, and his hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he whispers in my ear.

“You need to come, don’t you? Bet you’re so close you can barely stand it. So fucking desperate for this. For my cock.”

I don’t respond, but my squirming hips give me away. I’m not usually like this—I like to be in control, to keep a tight rein on my emotions and my body. But Killian has always been able to see right through me, to look right into my soul with those piercing eyes that seem to devour every detail.

“Yeah, that’s it. Move for me.” His lips find the sensitive spot just below my ear, sucking gently, and I gasp, my fingers digging into the sheets. “You’re gonna come just like this, aren’t you? Dry humping the fucking bed.”

I whimper, ashamed of how my body is betraying me, of how deeply he seems to understand the unbearable need that’s consuming me.

“Admit it,” he growls, nipping at my earlobe. “Tell me how bad you need it.”

“I…” The word catches in my throat, but I force it out anyway. “I need it. God, please.”

His chuckle vibrates against me, and he presses down harder, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm that has me arching my back and pushing against him.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Just let go. No more pretending, no more holding back. Just feel.”

And I do. Everything I’ve been feeling—the fear, the anger, the confusion—it’s all crystallizing into white-hot arousal. It’s like he’s burning away all my fucked-up emotions with the intensity of his touch, the roughness of his words.

“That’s my good girl.” His hand slides up my stomach, his fingers dancing just below my breasts. “You’re gonna come so hard for me, aren’t you? So fucking hard.”

I can feel how hard he is, pressed against me, and I squirm, wanting to feel him inside me, needing so badly for him to fill me.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for anymore. I just need more.

Killian’s hand tightens in my hair, and he pulls gently, forcing my head back to expose the sensitive skin of my neck. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. “Not until I say so.”

I huff out a short breath, my frustration building alongside the relentless throbbing between my legs. But I want this, need the release he’s offering, so I force myself to focus on the sensation, on how good it feels to have his body pressed against mine, to let him take control.

I wriggle against him, my hips finding a rhythm of their own as I grind against him. He lets out a low groan, his hips thrusting in response. I can feel his desire, how close he is to the edge, and it only spurs me on further.

But before I can ride out the orgasm that’s building inside me, he pulls me up, positioning me on my hands and knees. I can’t hold my cry of frustration in this time, not when my body is fucking aching for his cock, for my release, for something that will bring me down from this high.

“Not yet,” he says again, his voice firmer now. His hand finds my hair, tugging forcefully, guiding my head back. “You’ll come when I say you can.”

The sting of pain from my hair being pulled shoots a spark straight to my clit. It mingles with the rush of submission coursing through me. I need him to take control, to push me past my own mental blocks. If he doesn’t, I know I’ll keep getting caught in my thoughts, slipping into the trauma, the doubt, and the fear that always seem to be waiting just below the surface.

I need him right now, even though this is the only time or place I’ll admit it.