Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

24. Nico

24

NICO

I give the signal, and we move toward the loading dock. The lack of guards outside is unsettling, but I push the thought aside. Harlan’s arrogance could be working in our favor, or this could be a trap. Either way, we’re committed now.

My mind races with thoughts of Quinn even as my body operates on pure instinct. I scan the area, noting potential entry points and escape routes. The loading dock door is our best bet—less secure than the main entrance, easier to breach quietly.

I motion to Atlas and Killian, directing them to take positions on either side of the door. My fingers work quickly, picking the lock with practiced ease. The click of the mechanism releasing sends a jolt through my system—we’re in.

We slip inside and huddle behind a stack of crates, giving our eyes a chance to adjust to the dimly lit warehouse.

The place is fucking cavernous, and it should be easy to pick up every footstep, every voice. Still, I have to strain my ears for any sign of movement, any hint of where they might be holding Quinn. The silence is oppressive, broken only by our shallow, controlled breathing and the faint hum of distant machinery.

As we creep through the warehouse, my mind races, flooded with memories of Quinn. The first time I laid eyes on her flashes before me—her fierce determination, that glint of defiance in her eyes. All the heated exchanges and bitter rivalry play out like a movie in my head, each frame confirming the undeniable spark between us.

Our wedding day. Yeah, it was a sham wedding, but fuck she looked good that day. I’d thought I’d won then, believed I’d finally conquered her.

Fuck, how wrong I was.

The night she snuck into my room, knife in hand, replays vividly. The dim light glinting off the blade, the tension crackling in the air. That moment when everything changed, when the line between hate and desire blurred beyond recognition.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. We need to find her, need to end this. But the memories keep coming, relentless.

The way she felt in my arms, her body molding to mine like she was made for me. The fire that ignited every time we touched, every kiss a battle for dominance. I remember thinking I could break her, tame her.

Instead, she burrowed her way under my skin, into my veins, until I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began.

I think about the days I kept her captive, convinced I was punishing her. The satisfaction I thought I’d feel as I tortured her, tried to make her submit. But with every scream, every defiant glare, something inside me shifted.

I told myself I hated her. Repeated it like a mantra, desperate to believe it. Thought if I said it enough, it would become true.

But that was another fucking lie.

I clench my fist, anger and self-loathing coursing through me. We fucked up. I fucked up. The lies, the manipulation—it all started with us. With me.

We played Quinn like a goddamn fiddle, fed her bullshit about loyalty and family while plotting behind her back. I remember the satisfaction I felt when she fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Thought I was so fucking clever.

But now? Now I see it for what it was. A betrayal. We betrayed her first, and everything that came after—her lies, her scheming, her burning down our clubhouse—it was all just payback. Eye for an eye, and all that shit.

If our roles had been reversed, if I’d discovered her treachery first… Christ, I would’ve done worse. Much worse. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, leaving me winded and sick.

“Fuck,” I mouth the word in a near-silent exhale.

Atlas shoots me a questioning look, but I wave him off. This isn’t the time or place for a fucking pity party.

We move deeper into the warehouse, and with each step, my resolve hardens. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get her out of here. And then… then I’m going to make things right.

The memory of what I did to her—the torture, the mind games—it eats at me, gnawing at my insides like acid. I was a monster, convinced I was teaching her a lesson, breaking her spirit.

We move deeper into the warehouse, our footsteps muffled by years of dust and grime. The place is a fucking maze of shipping containers, stacked high and creating a deadly game of cat-and-mouse. It’s pretty ideal for staying hidden, but it also means Quinn—or one of the YK crew—could be around any corner.

I signal to Atlas and Killian, pointing to a nearby container. They nod, understanding my intent. We need a better vantage point.

With practiced ease, we scale the side of the container, staying hyper-aware of every sound we make. Once on top, we crouch low, surveying our surroundings.

From up here, the layout becomes clearer. The containers form a complex network of pathways, with occasional open areas breaking up the monotony. It’s in one of these pockets that I spot movement.

My heart rate spikes. Could it be Quinn? Or are we walking into a trap?

I tap Atlas on the shoulder, gesturing toward the activity. His eyes narrow as he follows my gaze. Killian already has his gun out, ready for whatever comes next.

We stay low, inching forward on the container. From this height, we have a clear view of the open area below. There’s a group of the Young Killers gathered in a semi-circle, taunting and laughing. I strain to make out what they’re saying, but I can only catch a word here and there.

And I don’t fucking like the words I’m catching.

Bitch.

Stupid.

Slut.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know they’re talking about Quinn. Then the crowd shifts a little and that’s when I see her.

I feel the rage building inside me, a white-hot fury that threatens to consume everything in its path. Quinn is there, in the middle of those fuckers. Her shirt has been torn off and her skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, leaving her bra dirty and bloodied from the cuts and scrapes that are visible even from way up here. Her chest heaves with exertion, but her eyes—Christ, her eyes are still burning with that defiant fire I know so well.

One of the Young Killers, a lanky bastard with a spider tattoo crawling up his neck, circles her like a shark. He lunges, trying to grab her, but Quinn is faster. She ducks under his arm, pivots, and drives her elbow into his ribs. The crack of bone is audible, and it makes me smile in spite of the anger I’m feeling.

“Fuck!” Spider-neck howls, stumbling back. “You little bitch!”

The others laugh, jeering and catcalling. It’s all a game to them, sick fucks that they are.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” another one taunts. “Why don’t you just give up? Make it easier on yourself.”

Quinn spits blood, her lips curling into a snarl. “Fuck you.”

She’s breathing hard, and her body is showing signs of exhaustion. But she’s still standing, still fighting. Fuck yeah, she is.

I’d expect nothing less.

Spider-neck recovers, charging at her again. This time, he manages to grab her arm, twisting it behind her back. Quinn lets out a pained grunt but doesn’t scream. Instead, she throws her head back, smashing it into his face. There’s a satisfying crunch as his nose breaks.

He releases her, howling in pain, and Quinn stumbles forward. She’s off-balance, vulnerable. Another Young Killer steps forward, grinning like he’s won the fucking lottery.

“My turn,” he leers, reaching for her.

I can see Quinn’s strength flagging. She’s fought hard, but she can’t keep this up forever. And these bastards know it. They’re playing with her, wearing her down until she can’t fight anymore.

The thought of what they’re probably planning to do next makes my blood boil. I look at Atlas and Killian, seeing my own fury mirrored in their eyes. We need to move, now.

I hold up seven fingers, indicating the number of Young Killers I’ve counted. Atlas nods, then points to himself and Killian, then to the far side of the open area. I get it—they’ll flank while I create a distraction.

But we’re not in an ideal position. We’re outnumbered, and the layout of the containers doesn’t give us many options for cover. It’s going to be messy, but we don’t have a choice.

Below us, Quinn’s still fighting. One of the bastards gets cocky, steps in too close. She seizes the opportunity, driving her knee into his groin with brutal force. He doubles over, gasping, and stumbles back to join his buddies.

Quinn stands in the center, chest heaving, fists clenched. She’s a fucking vision—battered, bloody, but unbroken.

Harlan steps forward, slow-clapping. “Impressive, sweetheart. But let’s see how you do with different odds, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers, and three of his men step into the circle. Quinn’s eyes dart between them, calculating. She knows she’s in trouble.

The first guy lunges, and Quinn manages to dodge, but the second catches her arm. She twists, trying to break free, but the third grabs her other arm. They force her to her knees, and I can see the panic in her eyes as she realizes she can’t fight them all off.

One of them grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. “Not so tough now, are you?”

I feel the rage building inside me, threatening to explode. We need to move, now.

I raise my gun, my vision tunneling as I focus on the bastards holding Quinn down. There’s no time for finesse, no room for the clever plan we’ve just come up with. All I can think about is stopping them before they can hurt her any worse than they already have.

I squeeze the trigger, and the world explodes into chaos.

The first shot catches the guy holding Quinn’s hair right in the temple. He drops like a sack of bricks, his grip on her loosening as he falls. The second and third shots find their marks in rapid succession, taking out the other two holding her down.

Quinn doesn’t waste a second. As soon as she’s free, she’s moving, diving for cover behind a nearby crate.

“We’re under attack!” Harlan’s voice cuts through the chaos, and suddenly the air is filled with the sound of gunfire.

The Young Killers scatter, some diving for cover while others return fire in our direction. Bullets ping off the metal container we’re perched on, forcing us to duck down.

Atlas and Killian open fire from their position, providing cover as I leap down from the container. I need to get to Quinn.

I sprint between the containers, using them as cover as I make my way toward her last position. Bullets whiz past my head, so close I can feel the air displacement.

“Quinn!” I shout over the gunfire. “Quinn, where are you?”

I hear a grunt of pain to my left and pivot, gun raised. But it’s just one of Harlan’s men, clutching a bleeding shoulder as he tries to aim at me. I don’t give him the chance, putting two rounds in his chest before he can get a shot off.

The warehouse is a war zone now. The sound of gunfire echoes off the metal containers, creating a deafening cacophony. I can hear Atlas and Killian returning fire from their position, keeping the Young Killers pinned down.

I round another corner and finally spot Quinn. She’s crouched behind a crate, her eyes wild but determined.

I watch as those smart-as-fuck, wild-as-hell eyes dart around, assessing the situation. Suddenly, she springs into action. She leaps from her hiding spot, catching one of the Young Killers off guard. She barrels into him with surprising force, knocking him off balance.

They grapple for his weapon, a frantic tangle of limbs and desperation. Quinn’s face is a mask of determination, her teeth bared in a snarl. The Young Killer tries to overpower her, but Quinn’s survival instinct is in overdrive.

With a sudden twist, she wrenches the gun from his grasp. Before he can react, she pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the warehouse, and the man crumples to the ground.

Quinn doesn’t waste a second. She’s on her feet and running, weaving between the shipping containers. The main crowd of Young Killers shout and give chase, but she’s already disappearing into the maze of metal.

“Quinn!” I yell, but my voice is lost in the chaos.

I hear the thud of boots hitting concrete behind me. Atlas and Killian have jumped down from their perch, using the shipping container as cover as they join me.

“We saw which way she went,” Atlas shouts over the gunfire. He points towards a narrow gap between two containers. “This way!”

We start moving, weaving through the metal maze. Bullets ping off the containers around us, and I return fire whenever I get the chance, hearing the satisfying grunts of pain when my shots find their mark.

Killian takes point, his bulk providing cover as we navigate the tight spaces. Atlas brings up the rear, keeping an eye out for anyone trying to flank us.

We turn a corner and come face to face with two Young Killers. There’s a split second of surprise on both sides before all hell breaks loose. I dive to the side as bullets fly, feeling the heat of one as it grazes my arm.

We round another corner, and I spot her crouched behind a stack of pallets, her stolen gun clutched tight.

“Quinn!” I call out.

Her head whips around, eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, she hesitates, then springs into action, darting towards us.

“This way!” Atlas shouts, gesturing to another narrow gap between containers.

We make a break for it, bullets whizzing past. Quinn is right behind me, her ragged breathing matching the pounding of my heart.

We squeeze through the gap, emerging into a small space between a container and the warehouse wall. It’s tight, but defensible.

“Get down!” Killian yells, opening fire on the Young Killers who’ve followed us.

We drop to our knees, using the container as cover. Atlas and I join Killian, leaning around the edges to return fire. The air fills with the deafening crack of gunshots and the ping of bullets hitting metal.

“We’re pinned down,” Atlas growls, ejecting an empty magazine and slamming in a fresh one.

I glance at Quinn. She’s pressed against the wall, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she takes. Our eyes lock, and I can see the confusion and wariness there.

“What are you doing here?” she whisper-shouts, her voice barely audible over the gunfire. “Why did you come?”

I take a deep breath, never breaking eye contact. “Because you were wrong. We’re here because we fucking care.”