Page 39 of Bonds of Obsession

“Getting impatient here.” Ambrose shifts his weight, hand resting on his own piece. “You promised me an induction ceremony.”

“They’ll be here.” The words come out steadier than I feel. Minutes tick by, each one ratcheting the tension higher. Nico and Killian have spread out slightly, hopefully taking positions that will give them clean lines of fire if that’s what it comes down to.

“Really?” Ambrose yanks Atlas up by his collar. “Because right now all I see is you wasting my time. Maybe I should cut my losses.”

“Don’t.” My hand twitches but I somehow manage to hold steady without making any sudden moves. “Malcolm gave his word. The ceremony will happen.”

But the doubt has definitely started creeping in. What if Malcolm played me? What if this whole thing was just a setup to get us here, outnumbered and exposed?

Atlas catches my eye and gives a tiny shake of his head. No doubt he can sense the panic building. It feels like everyone here is about two seconds away from doing something stupid. The bruises on his face look worse up close, and I’m having a hell of a time tamping down the rage when I think about what they must have done to him.

“You’ve got one minute.” Ambrose presses his gun against Atlas’s temple. “Then we do this my way.”

Fuck.

If Malcolm doesn’t show, we’ll have to fight our way out. The odds aren’t great—Ambrose’s men have better positions, and Atlas as a hostage—but I won’t let them execute him while I stand here doing nothing.

“Thirty seconds,” Ambrose calls out, clicking off his safety.

Just as he finishes speaking, movement catches my eye. Dark shapes emerge from behind monuments and trees until it seems like the cemetery has come alive with silent figures in elaborate masks, their silhouettes barely visible against the night sky. My heart pounds as I count them. There are six people in masks—the Dark Lotus Syndicate members, I’m guessing—and at least ten others who are unmasked. The ones without masks must be security, because they form a sort of perimeter around all of us, their demeanors watchful and stoic.

Nico and Killian shift closer to me, their hands hovering near their weapons. Atlas’s eyes go wide as he takes in the scene unfolding around us.

“Well.” A familiar voice speaks from behind one of the more ornate masks—black lacquer with golden accents catching little hints of moonlight here and there as he moves. Malcolm. “Your marker. Are you certain you still want to use it for someone else?”

I lift my chin, meeting the dark eyes behind his mask. “Yes. I’m certain. I want to use it for this man. Ambrose Pearce.”

Across from me, Ambrose nods, smug satisfaction radiating from him. God, he makes me sick.

The masked figures draw closer, forming a circle around us. I wasn’t planning on being impressed by the transfer ceremony, but I have to admit the costumes and the setting really make it feel like we’re doing something important. And possibly forbidden.

“The Dark Lotus Syndicate’s traditions stretch back for many years.” Malcolm’s voice carries easily through the still night air. “Tonight, we witness a transfer of membership. A rare occurrence, but one that will be allowed.”

He turns to me. “Quinn, you’ll be asked to speak the Oath of Fealty. To bind yourself to our ways, our secrets, and our brotherhood. The words must come from your heart, but they must include your vow to keep our secrets, to honor our traditions, and to put the Syndicate’s interests above your own.”

The masked figures step forward, and my pulse picks up its pace.

“You’ll kneel before us.” Malcolm gestures to the other five masked figures, all of whom are gazing at me. “Your hands will be bound with red silk—symbolic of the blood ties that bind us all. You’ll speak your oath, and if it’s deemed worthy, you’ll be one of us.” His voice drops lower. “Your first act as a memberwill be to choose someone to take your place.” He nods in Ambrose’s direction. “At that point, he will also swear the Oath of Fealty.”

I nod, trusting there will be some prompts along the way to keep me from fucking this up. “And the marker? We’ll still need to… to burn it off my body?”

Malcolm’s eyes glint behind his mask. “The marker must be removed, yes. Each member will either draw a line through your tattoo or burn away a portion with their brand.”

My stomach drops. I knew there would be pain and some kind of burning involved, but I didn’t realize it was going to be such a long, drawn-out process.

Nico takes a half-step forward, his jaw clenched tight. Even Killian’s usually stoic expression cracks, revealing a flash of protective anger. I shake my head at them both. We can’t risk anything going wrong, not with Atlas’s life hanging by a thread.

Malcolm leans in close, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Don’t count them all. Many here are simply guards. The Syndicate members alone will participate in the removal.”

I nod, taking one last look around before locking eyes with Malcolm again. “I understand. I’m ready.”

The first member of the Syndicate steps forward, their mask adorned with intricate silver scrollwork. As they reach up to remove it, the rest of the circle begins a low chant in Latin. “Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum.”

The revealed face belongs to a woman who looks a bit older than me, with auburn hair that gleams with hints of red. Her dark green eyes meet mine as she speaks. “I accept this marker and claim my portion.” The brand in her hand glows orange-hot.

I grit my teeth as the metal connects with my shoulder. The pain is white-hot, searing, but I don’t make a sound. My nails dig crescents into my palms.

The second member’s mask is black with gold filigree. When he removes it, I see a man who’s probably in his thirties, with a neatly trimmed beard, long hair, and eyes the color of storm clouds. “Sanguinem nostrum, vinculum nostrum.”

---