Page 147 of Bonds of Obsession

“Oh, I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” I increase the pressure, watching him writhe. “That’s nothing compared to what you deserve.”

He tries to reach for me, but he’s too weak. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth as he struggles to speak.

“I should’ve killed you that first night,” I tell him, leaning more weight onto my foot. “Or maybe you should’ve known better than to keep coming after what’s mine.”

Something flickers in his eyes. It isn’t fear or pain, but something else. Something that sends a shiver down my spine as his bloody lips curve into a smile.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I lean down, wanting to hear his last words. Wanting to know what could make a dying man smile like that.

His voice is barely a whisper, and wet with blood. “You think… this is over?” He coughs, spraying red. “I’ll be… seeing you soon.”

Then his eyes go glassy, fixed on nothing. Just like that, the Saint is gone.

45

QUINN

I watchthe blood pool beneath Ambrose’s body. His eyes are still open, but they’re empty now. Part of me wants to shoot him again, to empty my entire clip into his corpse. But he’s already gone. The terror that’s been haunting me is nothing but cooling meat on the ground.

My boot is still planted on his chest where the bullet tore through him, and I grind down one last time, feeling his dead flesh give beneath the pressure. After everything he’s done, I deserve a little extra satisfaction.

His final words echo in my head, making my jaw clench. Even dying, the fucker found a way to get under my skin one last time. That bloody smile of his, like he knew something I didn’t. Like maybe death wasn’t the end of his plans.

I force myself to look away from his face. He can’t hurt me anymore. None of his games or threats matter now. He’s gone, and that’s what counts. He can’t come after my men, can’t burn anything else to the ground, can’t rip apart anything else I’ve built.

“Thanks,” I tell Elliot’s hired gun who took the shot. He just stares back with a cold, almost clinical expression.

“I was just following orders,” he says flatly, already turning away as sirens blare in the distance.

“We need to move,” Nico says, already backing away from Ambrose’s body. The sirens are getting closer and the noise is starting to bounce off the buildings around us. “Leave him,” he adds when I hesitate for a split second. “Let the cops deal with the cleanup.”

He’s right. Most of Ambrose’s men are dead or have fled, and the ones who aren’t won’t stick around to get arrested. The Dark Lotus muscle is already melting away into the shadows now that their job is done. It’s time for us to do the same.

We sprint back toward where we left the bikes, my boots pounding against the pavement. My heart is racing, but not from the run. Ambrose is dead. He’s actually fucking dead. After weeks of him stalking and terrorizing us, he’s just… gone.

“Two to a bike,” Killian calls out as soon as we reach him and Atlas, his voice tight with pain. He’s limping and he’s way too pale after losing so much blood, but he’s moving. That’s what matters.

Atlas swings onto one of the bikes, and I climb on behind him without hesitating. My arms wrap around his waist, and for a second, the solid feel of him grounds me.

The bikes roar to life, and we tear out of there just as red and blue lights start flashing at the end of the street. My hands are shaking where they grip Atlas’s jacket, the adrenaline starting to crash now that it’s all over.

But is it really over? Ambrose’s last words nag at me, along with that smug fucking smile of his.

I press my face against Atlas’s back, trying to focus on the rumble of the bike beneath us and on the fact that we’re all alive and together. We got what we came for. Ambrose is dead, and his reign of terror is finished.

The city blurs past as we ride. My arms are locked around Atlas’s waist, and for the first time since this shit started, I can actually breathe.

We trudge into the condo looking like we just crawled out of hell. Blood, sweat, and grime cling to us, and Killian is limping hard now that the adrenaline is wearing off. My stomach twists seeing the blood matted in his hair and the angry, raw road rash on his skin.

“Meet me in the bathroom,” I tell him, my voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

He starts to protest anyway, but I silence him with a look. Atlas and Nico share a glance—they know that look too. They head off to secure the place while I steer Killian toward the bathroom.

The bright lights are harsh, and they highlight every scrape and gash on his body as I help him peel off his shirt. His shoulder is swollen where he had to pop it back in, and dried blood cakes the side of his face. Seeing him torn up like this makes my chest ache. It makes me want to bring Ambrose back to life just so I can kill him again.

“Sit,” I order, grabbing the first aid kit. Killian obeys, perching on the edge of the massive marble tub. His eyes follow me as I wet a cloth, something intense burning in his gaze.

“You’re bleeding too,” he says quietly.

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