Page 54 of Princes of Carnage

“Here,” Quinn says, dropping her voice. “What do you think about this window?” She stands in the window, a small, grimy thing in the corner. It’s a bit higher than a usual window, and she has to crane her neck to see out of it. “I can just make out the drop point from here.”

I stand behind her, hyper aware of the heat from her body and the scent that rises up from her skin. Even over all the dust and dirt in this place, her scent stands out clearly, intoxicating.

Jasmine and honey, with just a hint of something darker.

When I don’t respond, she whips her head around to look at me. “Do you have any input? Or are you just here to hover?”

I grunt in response, not giving her more than that.

Her beautiful face twists into a scowl, and she folds her arms, glaring up at me. “So you have nothing to say? You don’t talk much, do you?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug.

Quinn huffs a breath, her lips parting just slightly. “Great. You’re all so helpful to Nico, but not to me, apparently. Atlas wouldn’t tell me anything worthwhile when we were dress shopping, and now I’m stuck with a guy who doesn’t say anything. Wonderful.”

This time, she doesn’t wait for a response. She just turns back to the window, her brow furrowed.

“There’s a good enough view from here, but it’s a bad angle. Anyone hiding in here would have to run around to the front of the building and then be right in front of the runner. Not good for stealth. Let’s move on.”

We comb the whole building, with Quinn offering insight into why she thinks any given spot would be good or bad for someone trying to hide. Her assessments are thoughtful and impressive, proof that she’s a competent strategist.

Once the drugstore is thoroughly checked, we move on, working our way around the whole area to make sure it’s secure.

I split my focus between doing the actual job—making sure nothing gets past us or goes unchecked—and watching Quinn. I’m hyper aware of her the whole time, taking in every minute detail about the way she moves and the way she works.

There’s a little line that appears between her brows when she’s concentrating hard, trying to make sure she hasn’t missed anything, and it’s amusing to realize that it’s the same furrow she gets when she’s about to come. I’ve seen it every time I’ve watched her fall apart.

I can also sense the agitation building in her as we go. Her shoulders climb higher and higher toward her ears, her body a tense line. Sometimes she looks over her shoulder as if to check that I’m still there with her, but she doesn’t seem reassured when she sees me lurking behind her.

If anything, it seems to agitate her more, and I know it’s because she doesn’t like the silence. Some people find quiet unnerving, and she’s clearly one of those people.

Finally, she turns around again, and there’s something blazing in her eyes when she does.

“I saw you last night, you know,” she says, lifting her chin. “You were watching.”

My entire body reacts to that, going tense and alert. My muscles feel coiled, ready for action, but I keep that reaction off my face, letting it stay neutral and impassive.

Quinn arches a brow when I don’t respond to her words. Then she huffs a breath and shakes her head.

“It doesn’t matter one way or another,” she mutters. “It’s not going to happen again. It was a fucking mistake, and I won’t be making it twice.”

She turns away, murmuring something else under her breath as she walks on. Her voice is so quiet that if I wasn’t used to keeping my ears open to listen for her, I might have missed it. “Even if it was some of the best sex I’ve ever had. It’s not fucking worth it.”

The words weren’t meant for me—she was speaking to herself, like a reminder or a mantra—but they hit me hard all the same.

Now jealousy rises up inside me in an almost overwhelming wave.

I curl my fingers into fists at my side, fighting against the urge to pull her against my body. To show her what the best sex she’s ever had would actually feel like. To show her that those little toys she uses when she’s all alone are only ever going to be a pale facsimile of what she should feel. Of what she deserves to feel.

I clench my jaw, drawing in a deep breath, and Quinn looks over her shoulder at me, giving me an annoyed look.

“Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there?”

I let some of the tension bleed out of me and follow after her.

She talks more after that, as we keep inspecting the surroundings. It’s as if my silence gives space for all of her words, and she’s no longer holding them back as much.

We stop in front of an abandoned and crumbling cargo bay, and Quinn peers inside. It’s an open, echoey space, and she takes one step in and listens to the way her footsteps ring off the concrete.

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