Page 61 of Bound By Obsession

Before I can say anything else, Wyatt is already moving, putting more speed and effort into the short run than he did all morning on the court. He bounds up the steps two at a time, and for a second, I think he’s about to charge inside, ready to face whatever, or whoever, is waiting. But he stops just short of the doorway, his fists clenched so tight I swear I hear his knuckles crack.

Dax is right behind him, his jaw locked and body coiled like a spring ready to snap. I’m slower to approach, as if holding Garrett back in a slow walk will somehow slow the inevitable. The air around us is suddenly thick, the winter’s bite becoming the least of our problems. My heart thunders faster, every instinct screaming that we’re about to walk into a trap.

Reaching the top step, I follow Dax’s eyeline to the small table just inside the door, where we usually toss our keys into a shallow dish. The only saving grace is that Huxley’s keys aren’t present, which I pray means they’re not home, but thereis a singular yellow rose placed against the wood with a tiny, scribbled card.

Welcome Home Avery.

“He knows we’re back,” Dax barely whispers. Wyatt’s head cocks to the side, his curiosity piqued.

“When we were looking for you in the city, someone crept into the hotel room where Garrett and Avery were sleeping and left a bouquet of yellow roses,” I fill Wyatt in. There’s no recognition that he’s heard me, his back rippling. When he speaks, it’s a low growl of forewarning.

“I never told you guys this, because I didn’t think it mattered,” he pauses to inhale and exhale steadily. “But yellow roses were my mom’s - Cathy’s - favorite flower. I have my buttonhole from her funeral upstairs. It’s an exact color match.”

An involuntary shudder crawls the length of my spine. I didn’t need confirmation that Fredrick was responsible for these spontaneous drop-ins, but having it causes the dread to surge through me like a wildfire, raging and temporarily locking me in place on the porch. I grip Garrett’s arm tighter.

“He’s toying with us,” Garrett mutters mostly to himself, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the staircase. His jaw clenches every few seconds, like he’s grinding his teeth. “Search the house.”

“Are you insane?!” I yank him back when he tries to cross the threshold. “No way. I’m calling the cops, let them handle this.” My phone is already out and dialing when three sets of eyes swing onto me, apparently sharing the same thought.

“What if they’ve got Avery up there, gagged and bound?” Dax’s brows tilt, the worry in his blue gaze evident. Still typing out the number, I step into their chests and keep my voice as a low hiss.

“What if they got guns? We know they’re not shy of using firearms on us, or have you all forgotten Huxley was shot lasttime they came for her?” A tense silence settles as I hold the cell to my ear and quickly reel off the details needed, holding Wyatt’s eye contact. If anyone is on the side of not storming into a house with armed goons, it should be him. He tried to hide how much it affected him to have a gun pointed in his face last time, but I don’t miss a thing. I know where to look.

“Thank you,” I say and cancel the call, crossing my arms. “There’s a patrol car in the area, they’ll be here shortly.” The fear welling inside doesn’t lessen, especially as Garrett doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look at me either, just keeps staring at the staircase like he’s already playing out the worst-case scenario in his head. Like he’s about to bolt inside.

Not a single sound trickles through the house, as if the very walls are holding their breath. Fuck, if anything happens to Avery whilst we’re useless standing on the porch because I demanded it…I won’t know how to deal with that. For now, I hold onto the hope that no keys and no SUV mean Huxley had the good sense to keep her away.

Before I can spiral anymore, before an impending panic attack has a chance to grip me in its clutches, a deep, booming laugh rolls across the front lawn. My head snaps to the left, expecting something completely different to the swarm of football jocks scattered across our yard. There’s more than ten of them, standing shoulder to shoulder, bulky and imposing. Clad in fitted T-shirts that show off their muscular physiques, most have a baseball cap turned backwards on their heads.

“The fuck do you want?” Wyatt pushes his way through us to take the front, standing at his full height. It has no effect on the men at the far end of our property. I recognize a few of them from a frat house down the road, their faces twisted with smugness.

One of them, the ringleader I presume, cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “There’s the sister fucker.” The airall but vanishes, all blood draining from my face. More laughter follows.

“Oh yeah, we’ve heard all about you. Screwing around with your sister and passing her around your friends. What a sick fuck.” A meathead steps forward, toeing his shoe into the grass. I notice then that they’re all wearing studded sneakers, the intent obvious. They’re here to cause some damage. “Thought you’d have the good sense to stay away, glad you didn’t though. I’ve been dreaming about this.”

Multiple knuckles crack behind him, cocky grins rippling down the line. Beside me, Garrett’s body is as rigid as a steel bar, and I see the moment the switch flips in him. He’s ready to charge, to throw himself into this fight headfirst, like he always does. I grip his arm, holding him back just long enough for him to meet my gaze.

“Don’t,” I say, but it’s too late. Avery and Wyatt’s reputation are being dragged through the mud, and if there’s something Garrett can’t stand, it’s bullies. His dark eyes burning with barely contained fury. I reach up and scuff his hair again, trying to bring him back to me even though it feels like there’s a weight pressing down on my chest. “They just want a reaction. We have bigger issues right now.”

“Oh, don’t make me throw up,” one of the jocks fakes a gag. “They’ve got gays living in that fucked up house too?!” Any hint of light in Garrett’s eyes suddenly dies. And that’s when I know, we’re not walking away from this. Not today. Not when the panic inside churns into something more potent, something darker that takes over my mind.

Wyatt doesn’t say a word. He’s already moving, a slight swagger to his steps as his long legs eat up the path. Dax follows, and then Garrett and me, like we’re all caught in the same gravitational pull. By the time we’re on the lawn, the footballguys are laughing again, their leader stepping forward with his hands raised in mock surrender.

“What’s the matter?” he sneers. “Can’t handle a little truth?” Placing myself in front of the guy that gagged, I lift a brow and blow him a kiss. Wyatt takes the lead, exuding confidence. I expect him to defend himself, disgusted by the notion of what they said, but that’s not what tumbles from his lips.

“She’s not my sister.”

“You grew up with her. You knew her as a fucking child,” the leader snarls, his top lip curled. “How long have you been wishing you could touch her-” It happens so fast. Wyatt’s fist swings before the guy finishes his sentence, catching him square in the jaw with a sickening crack. The guy’s head snaps to the side, eyes wide with shock. He stumbles back, arms flailing, but Wyatt doesn’t stop. His body moves like a well-oiled machine, another punch already sailing forward. This time it lands right in the guy’s gut, sending the guy sprawling to the ground.

Chaos explodes around us, fists flying in every direction, bodies colliding in a whirlwind of rage and adrenaline. I don’t even have time to think. My body moves on pure instinct, recalling a time I used to fight without reason. Punishing those who didn’t deserve it, but this time, they do, and I have no qualms about reacting with my fists.

One of the jocks charges straight at me, his face twisted in anger, his arms raised like he’s about to tackle me to the ground. I duck just as he lunges, feeling the rush of air as his fist barely grazes my shoulder. He’s bigger than me, stockier, but his size also makes him slow, predictable.

As he stumbles forward from the miss, I plant my foot and pivot, driving my elbow into his ribs with all the force I can muster. I feel the impact reverberate up my arm, the hard crack of bone meeting bone. I don’t give him a chance to recover. Stepping close and planting a hand on his chest to keep himoff balance, I drive my knee up into his stomach. He lets out a choked sound, doubling over, and I finish him off with a quick jab to the side of his head. He collapses, groaning, and I stand over him for a second, my chest heaving, my fists still clenched.

I look around, scanning the scene for my next target. The homophobic asshole. Bodies are strewn across the lawn, some of them groaning in pain, others knocked out cold. It’s a mess of bruised faces and split lips, and we’re right in the middle of it.

Garrett is breathing heavily, but his eyes are wild, fists flying faster than I can track. He’s like an animal, all raw rage and unchecked aggression. Two guys come at him at once, and he doesn’t even flinch. His fist snaps out, catching one of them across the face with a vicious hook. Following up with a brutal uppercut that knocks him flat, Garrett holds off so he can kick the jock who’s trying to crawl away.

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