Page 38 of Crown of Lies

QUINN

My mind raceswith a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as we weave through the Detroit streets on our drive back home.

I exchanged phone numbers with Willow before we left, and she promised to call me once Victor gets a hit on the messages we’re hoping to trace. As soon as that was done, I practically ran out of the warehouse like my hair was on fire.

Her words from our conversation in the living room keep echoing in my head, and I’m not sure why I’m letting it all bother me so much.

The way she talked about Nico, Killian, and Atlas—my captors, myenemies—with such certainty, has me rattled. It was as if she could still see some kind of future for the four of us.

But the fact of the matter is that the future she saw doesn’t exist anymore. Those feelings don’t exist between us anymore, and I can’t imagine a scenario where they might magically come back.

Still, the whole conversation has left me feeling vulnerable and raw, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Those feelings are weaknesses in my current situation, and I sure as hell can’t afford that shit. I have too many people depending on me. People who need me to stay as strong and cautious and coldas possible if I expect to keep leading them through this fucking nightmare.

Nico says something about lunch, and I almost answer before I catch myself and look out the window instead. The truth is that I’m fucking starving after only eating a piece of toast this morning, but I can’t keep playing this game of pretending like everything is peaches and fucking roses again while I’m so torn up inside.

They hurt me. All three of them. Physically, mentally, emotionally—all of it. They took my trust and whatever deeper feelings I was starting to have and pissed it all away, so if I have to go on a fucking hunger strike to keep reminding myself that the enemies of my enemy aren’t necessarily my friends, then I guess that’s what I’ll have to do.

Being hungry and stuck in my thoughts for most of the day still beats the hell out of being chained to a pipe in the basement.

God, I haven’t been this emotionally fucked up since my dad died. And I definitely wasn’t prepared for the visceral reminder of his death today. Just being in that warehouse, surrounded by those who knew him, brought it all crashing back. No matter how many times I’ve told myself that I’ve moved on and that I’m all better, something like this comes along and reminds me that there’s still an open, gaping wound in my heart that is refusing to heal.

I can still vividly recall those agonizing days after his body was brought back to me, battered and lifeless. The numbness that seeped into my bones, leaving me feeling cold and hollow. And when the numbness finally starts to go away, it’s only replaced by an all-consuming grief that burns through me, threatening to swallow me whole.

I had to force myself to keep moving, to keep pushing forward, if only to honor his legacy. Taking control of the gang,stepping into his shoes—it was the only way I knew how to cope, to make him proud even after he was gone.

But I was just a broken daughter grieving the loss of her father, trying my damnedest to muddle through the pain and keep it all together.

The memory is still so raw, so visceral, that it leaves me feeling exposed and vulnerable all over again. I can feel the others’ lingering, questioning glances burning into me from the corners of their eyes, but I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, jaw clenched until we pull up in front of the house—my house—again.

I step out of the car without a word and hurry to the front door, desperate for some time alone. Everything churning inside me is pointing to a breakdown, and I’ll be goddamned if these men are going to see even a second of weakness from me.

My feet carry me to my father’s old study, a room I’ve avoided since he died. The air feels thick with memories as I enter, and I’m not sure what I’m even doing in here until my eyes land on the worn leather case tucked away in the corner.

With trembling hands, I pull it out and unzip it, smiling a little to myself as I reveal his prized knife collection. I run my hands over antique handles carved from wood and ivory and solid metal, wishing I knew all the countless stories that are tied up in each one.

Pulling out an old carved hunting knife and a whetstone, I begin the ritual I’ve watched my father do so many times over the years. Dragging the stone over the dulled blade instantly begins to soothe my frayed nerves, and it doesn’t take long before the soft scraping sound starts to fill the room, drowning out most of the noise in my head.

I miss him. God, I miss him so much it physically aches. The weight of leadership, of survival, of this whole fucked up situation crashes down on me, and hot, unwelcome tearsbegin to roll down my cheeks. What I wouldn’t give for his steady presence, his wisdom, his unwavering support. I’d trade everything I hold dear for just a few more minutes with him, for a chance to hug him and hear him say that everything really is going to be okay.

Because right now?

It feels like everything is fucked and nothing is going to be okay ever again.

The door creaks open behind me. Without thinking, I whirl around, brandishing the freshly sharpened knife. Killian stands in the doorway, his eyes widening more from my tear-streaked face than the blade in my hand.

I blink rapidly and brush away the tears, silently cursing myself for letting him see me like this. “I’m not in the mood for any bullshit, Killian,” I snarl, trying to keep the emotions on my face from spilling over into my voice. “Just go. Leave me alone.”

Killian doesn’t leave though. He stays, watching me with his perceptive gaze—the man who’s watched me for so long. Who seems to see so much that I don’t want him to see.

“I didn’t know everything that happened with your father,” he says quietly, his eyes searching mine.

A harsh laugh escapes my lips. “Of course you didn’t know. The Princes were his enemies, just like you’re supposed to be my enemies. You and the others probably threw a fucking party when he died.”

The words taste bitter on my tongue, but I can’t stop them from spilling out. The anger, the grief, the sheer helplessness of it all—it’s too much to keep bottled up inside.

Killian takes a step closer, his expression unreadable. “That’s not true, siren. We may have had our differences with your father, but we never wanted him dead. And we certainly didn’t celebrate when it happened.”

I grunt, shaking my head in disbelief. “Right. Because you’re all such stand-up guys. Forgive me if I have a hard time buying that bullshit.”

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