Page 81 of Crown of Lies

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. Iremember 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.

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