Crown of Lies (Pretty Ruthless Monsters #2)

29. Killian

29

KILLIAN

I sit on the edge of the bed, a familiar weight in my hand. Sharpening my knife is a comfort, a familiar ritual. I run my thumb along the razor-sharp edge, feeling a vicious sense of satisfaction as I remember the vengeance I delivered with it last night.

The blade bites into my skin, a thin line of red welling up, and I smile. It’s sharp enough. I’ll make sure it stays that way.

My mind wanders back to the warehouse, to the hands I chopped off for touching what’s mine. Ours. I didn’t count how many, and it doesn’t matter. One bastard’s hands on Quinn is one too many.

The memory brings a dark pleasure, but it only lasts a few seconds. My thoughts drift to Quinn, and the knife feels almost forgotten in my hand.

Last night with Quinn… that was something else. Seeing her like that, with me and my brothers… it was a fucking rush. I start sharpening the knife again, almost as an afterthought.

She always knows how to get us going—a filthy mouth on her, always pushing for more. But last night, seeing her with Atlas and Nico, the three of us taking what we wanted… That was a whole new level of good.

I remember how she looked, caught between us, her eyes wild and her body glistening with sweat. Her breath hitched as we touched her, tasted her, claimed her. It was fucking beautiful.

I picture her face, the way she used to look when she tried to get herself off with those toys of hers. Back then I didn’t really understand why it wasn’t enough. Now I know the fake cocks and vibrators couldn’t give her what she really craved. They were never going to be rough enough. Dirty enough. She’d known it, and I’d seen the disappointment in her eyes.

Even when I fucked her at the club, I thought I was giving her what she needed. I’d fuck her hard against the wall, my hand around her throat, her nails digging into my back. I’d watch her come undone, thinking I was satisfying her deepest desires.

But now I see it differently. Last night, when we all had her… that was something else entirely. The way she moved between us, her body trembling, her voice raw as she begged for more. It wasn’t just about getting off anymore. It was about being completely consumed, possessed by all of us.

Maybe that’s what she’s always craved. To be shared, to belong to all of us in a way that goes beyond just fucking. The thought sends a jolt of heat through my body, and I feel myself getting hard.

It’s a heady realization, knowing that what we did last night might have fulfilled something in Quinn that I never could on my own.

But I know things are still complicated as fuck between all of us. Especially between Quinn and Nico. I’ve seen the way they look at each other, the barely-hidden desire just as strong as the hurt.

I guess it’s always been simple for me, in a way. Quinn is like this bright flash of color in a world that’s mostly shades of gray. I can’t explain it, but I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

Everyone else just blends into the background. They’re dull, predictable. But Quinn? She’s vibrant, unpredictable. A force of nature that demands attention.

The door creaks open, and there she is, as if my thoughts summoned her. She walks in and immediately fills the room with her presence. My eyes are drawn to her, taking in every detail.

“Just talked to Nico,” she says, perching on the edge of the bed. “He and Atlas are out, trying to smooth things over with that contact for the temporary clubhouse.”

I nod, setting my knife aside. “How’s that going?”

“Seems promising.” She pauses, a small smile playing at her lips. “But that’s not the interesting part. Remember that guy Nico shot and sent back with a message?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Well, turns out he actually made it back to the Young Killers alive. Delivered the message before he kicked the bucket.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “No shit?”

Quinn nods. “And get this—Nico was right. The message was received loud and clear. The gang’s falling apart without a leader. Sounds like a good chunk of them aren’t too keen on going up against both Enigma and Carnage.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “That’s good. Real good.” I stand up, moving closer to her. “Saves us the trouble of having to wipe them out completely.”

“Exactly,” Quinn agrees, her eyes meeting mine. “Nico seemed pretty pleased with himself when he told me. Can’t say I blame him.”

“Smart move on his part. Gotta hand it to him.”

Quinn nods, her eyes distant. Her fingers trace abstract patterns on the bedspread, and a shadow passes over her face.

“It doesn’t bring back my people though,” she says softly. “The ones who were killed.”

I watch her closely, noting the slight slump of her shoulders, the tightness around her eyes. Every death weighs on her, I can see it plain as day.

“I know.” I match her tone. “It’s the same for Nico. For all of us, really.”

She looks up at me, a question in her eyes.

“Nico feels that weight of responsibility to his people,” I explain. “It’s part of why he was so pissed about the clubhouse. That shit didn’t just affect us three, you know? It hit the whole gang.”

I watch as Quinn’s expression shifts. She’s clearly taking my words to heart.

“I know,” she says softly. “If someone fucked with my gang, I’d do whatever it took to get my revenge too. No matter the cost.”

“I know you would. You and Nico… you’re so much more alike than either of you can admit.”

Quinn huffs out a laugh, not able to deny it. The sound is a mix of amusement and resignation.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” she admits, shaking her head. “Both stubborn as hell, always ready for a fight. Protective of our people to a fault.”

I can’t help but smirk. “Don’t forget the part where you’re both hot-headed and impulsive as fuck.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Look who’s talking, Mr. ‘Let’s-chop-off-hands-first-ask-questions-later.’”

I shrug, unrepentant. “Hey, it sent a message, didn’t it?”

Quinn’s smile fades, and I can almost see the gears turning in her head. Her eyes lose focus, and I know she’s not really seeing me anymore.

“What is it?” I ask, leaning in closer.

She blinks, coming back to the present. “I was just thinking… about The Saint.”

I tense at the mention of that bastard’s name. “What about him?”

“Why he’s after me. Why he thinks I’m so valuable. It’s been bugging me ever since we found out.”

I nod, understanding her frustration. “Yeah, it’s a fucking mystery.”

“But now…” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine with a new fire. “Now I need to know. I have to find out what this supposed ‘value’ is.”

“Why the sudden urgency?” I ask, although I think I already know the answer.

Quinn takes a deep breath, her hands clenching into fists. “Because if I’m valuable to him, maybe I can use that. Maybe I can leverage whatever it is to make things right. To make amends for what I did to you guys.”

I see the determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw. She’s on a mission now, driven by a need to atone for the chaos she caused.

“You’re talking about the clubhouse?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Yeah. And everything else that’s happened because of me. If I can figure out why The Saint wants me so badly, maybe I can turn it around. Use it to our advantage somehow.”

I nod, but she’s already on to something else before I can say anything.

“There’s more,” she says, leaning in closer. “Before I left Dylan’s place that night—you know, when I got attacked—he told me something important.”

I tense at the mention of her attack but motion for her to continue.

“He said I should ask my uncle’s old cellmate about why The Saint might be after me.”

I frown. “Didn’t your uncle pass away not too long ago?”

Quinn nods. “Yeah, otherwise he could tell me himself. That’s why Dylan suggested talking to his old cellmate instead.”

“Smart thinking. Is this cellmate still locked up?”

“I already did some digging,” she says, a hint of pride in her voice. “Turns out Casey’s only long-term cellmate—a guy named Ambrose Pearce—just recently got out of prison.”

I can see where this is going. “So we can track him down.”

Quinn nods, her eyes meeting mine. “Exactly. We can find him and talk to him. Maybe he knows something about why The Saint is after me.”

“Good lead.” I reach for my knife again. “We should follow up on that soon.”

Quinn watches as I resume sharpening the blade, her eyes following the rhythmic motion.

“You’re always working on that thing,” she observes. “Does it really need that much attention?”

I smirk, not looking up from my task. “You’d be surprised how quickly it gets dull. Especially after last night’s… activities.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You mean chopping off hands?”

“Yeah.” I run my thumb along the edge, more out of habit than to actually test the sharpness. “Bones are a bitch on the blade.”

Quinn goes quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, there’s a mischievous glint in her eye.

“So, what’s your plan?” she asks, her tone light but with an undercurrent of curiosity. “You gonna cut the hands off anyone who ever touched me in a way I didn’t like?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting such a direct answer. Then she smirks, playing along. “Well, in that case, I better make a list. Wouldn’t want you to miss anyone.”

I look her dead in the eye. She might be joking, but I’m not. “Good. That’ll help me keep track of them better.”

Quinn’s smirk falters for a second at the seriousness of my tone. But then it returns, wider than before, still with a hint of amusement along with something darker in her eyes.

“You’re really serious about that, aren’t you?” she asks, leaning in closer.

I nod, my gaze never leaving hers. “Dead serious. I don’t allow anyone to hurt what’s mine. And you, siren? You’re ours.”

I watch as something flickers in Quinn’s eyes—recognition, maybe, or understanding. She holds my gaze for a long moment, then slowly reaches for the neckline of her shirt.

Without breaking eye contact, she pulls it down, revealing two marks on her skin. I recognize them immediately—one belongs to Atlas, the other to Nico.

Quinn’s voice is soft when she speaks. “Does it bother you? That you don’t have a mark on me?”

I set the knife down. A slow smile spreads across my face, the same way my dark and possessive feelings are spreading inside me.

“I don’t need a mark to know you’re mine. You’re ours because we decided you are, not because of some ink on your skin.”

My heart thuds as she leans in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “And what if I told you I want you to put one on me?”

My gaze locks with hers, something primal rising up inside me.

“You got a tattoo gun here?”

Her eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting me to be so immediately willing. But she nods anyway.

My pulse races as I imagine marking her, claiming her in a way that’s permanent and visible. I can almost feel the buzz of the gun in my hand, see the ink sinking into her skin.

“Go get it.”

Quinn’s eyes light up with excitement as she jumps off the bed. She practically dances out of the room, her energy palpable. I can’t help but smirk at her enthusiasm.

A few minutes later, she returns, tattoo gun in hand. She sets it on the nightstand, along with ink and other supplies.

“Ready?” she asks, a mix of anticipation and nervousness in her voice.

I nod, picking up the gun. “Where do you want it?”

She shrugs out of her shirt, exposing the two existing tattoos. “Right here, next to the others.”

I position myself beside her, gun in hand. The buzz fills the air as I start, and Quinn watches intently as I work. Each line is precise, my hand steady as always. I feel a new sort of connection forming between us as the ink sinks into her skin.

When I finish, Quinn examines the fresh tattoo—my ring, now permanently etched right next to Atlas’s and Nico’s marks.

“It’s perfect,” she breathes, tracing the lines with her finger. “You know, since you got to tattoo me, I think it’s only fair that I get to put one on you someday.”

I give her a look that clearly says ‘not a chance in hell’, and she bursts out laughing as she looks down at her new tattoo again. I watch as she traces each line, her fingertips hovering just above the irritated skin. She seems hyper-aware of every detail, every curve and angle.

I tip Quinn’s chin up and there’s a moment of anticipation, a breath held between us, before I lean in and press my lips to hers. It’s only the second time I’ve kissed her, and the novelty of it sends a fresh jolt through my system.

As our lips meet, I’m struck by the intensity of the connection. It’s like a current running between us, electric and alive. My hand moves to cup her face, feeling the softness of her skin against my calloused palm.

Quinn responds eagerly, her body pressing closer to mine. Her lips part, inviting me deeper, and I accept without hesitation. The taste of her, the warmth of her breath—it’s all intoxicating.

As we kiss, a thought crystallizes in my mind. I was right all along. Even without a tattoo, my mark was already on her. It’s there in the way she melts into me, in the soft sounds she makes as our tongues dance. It’s in the way her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer as if she can’t get enough.

This connection, this undeniable pull between us—it’s more permanent than any ink could ever be. The tattoo might be visible, but this? This runs deeper.