Page 102 of Crown of Lies

“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.

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