Page 42 of Bonds of Obsession

But something’s wrong. The tactical part of my brain is screaming that we’re missing something, that Ambrose wouldn’t just lay low while his men are getting picked off one by one all around him.

“He’s making a break for it!” One of the Syndicate guards shouts from the eastern edge of the cemetery. “Heading for the service road!”

“Two vehicles!” Another voice cuts in. “Two black SUVs.”

More gunfire drowns out the rest of his words. I sprint toward the sound, heart pounding, but I already know we’re too late. Ambrose planned this—had an escape route ready. While his men died buying him time, he slipped away like the snake he is.

“Fuck!” I slam my palm against cold marble, frustration burning through me. “Anyone got eyes on him?”

“Negative,” one of the Syndicate’s operators reports. “Both vehicles cleared the perimeter. We’ve got three teams in pursuit, but?—”

“But he knows these streets,” Nico finishes, coming up beside me. “And he’ll have backup routes planned.”

The answering silence tells me everything I need to know. Everything has gone quiet except for the scrape of boots on gravel and the labored breathing of the wounded. My eyes immediately find Atlas, and my heart clenches at the sight ofhim. He’s upright only because Nico and Killian are supporting him, one on each side. Even in the dim moonlight, I can see the damage Ambrose inflicted—the bruises, the cuts, the way he’s favoring his left side.

I cross the distance between us in quick strides, my hand reaching for his face before I can stop myself. His skin is clammy under my fingers, but his eyes—those intense, kind eyes I’ve dreamed about every night since they took him—lock on to mine with the same intensity they’ve always held.

“Took you long enough,” he manages, his voice rough but his lips curving into that familiar half-smile that makes my chest ache.

“Traffic was hell.” The words come automatically, our banter a lifeline in this chaos. “Plus, someone decided to play hero at the tattoo parlor.”

“Couldn’t let them get to you.” He winces as he shifts his weight. “They knew about the marker. Emmett?—”

“I know.” I cut him off, not wanting him to waste energy explaining what I’ve already figured out. “That particular loose end is being handled.”

“You shouldn’t have used the marker.” His voice drops lower, meant only for me. “We had other options.”

“This—the Syndicate—was the only play we had, and you know it.” My fingers skim over a particularly nasty cut along his jawline. “We need to get you looked at. Some of these cuts look like they might be infected.”

“I’m fine.” He tries to straighten up, to take his weight off Nico and Killian, but his legs buckle. Only their quick reactions keep him from hitting the ground.

“Sure you are.” Killian’s tone is light, but his green eyes are hard as he scans the area. “Just like that time in Memphis when you said you were fine with three broken ribs and a punctured lung.”

“That was different,” Atlas protests weakly.

“Yeah,” Nico agrees. “This time you look worse.”

“We need to move soon,” I say, noting how Atlas’s breathing is becoming more labored.

“Yeah, we do,” Killian agrees. “I can patch him up as soon as we get home.”

I do a quick sweep of the bodies scattered across consecrated ground, my stomach dropping as I confirm what I already suspected. Every corpse wears the generic tactical gear of a hired gun. None of them are Ambrose.

“He got away.” It’s almost impossible to keep the accusatory tone from my voice. I turn to face the assembled members of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. “You let him slip right through your fingers.”

“Watch your tone,” the man with the slightly crooked nose bites out.

The woman with platinum blonde hair steps forward, her light green eyes narrowed. She was the last one to brand me before Malcolm did, and when she speaks, her voice could freeze hell itself. “When you decided to use your first votum three seconds after joining our ranks, you specifically requested that we ‘free Atlas from his captors.’ Those were your exact words.” Her head tilts slightly. “You never specified that you wanted Ambrose dead.”

“You knew exactly what I wanted,” I snap back. “You had him cornered.”

“Did we?” The man with the long hair and beard speaks up. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so hasty with your votum, if you’d taken a moment to think strategically rather than emotionally, you’d have gotten everything you wanted.”

“Enough, Owen.” Malcolm’s voice cuts through the tension. “The votum was called and answered. Whatever else happenedhere tonight is… unfortunate, but not a violation of our agreement.”

The other Syndicate members remain motionless, but I can feel their judgment radiating through their silence. They fulfilled the letter of my request—nothing more, nothing less.

“We did exactly what you asked,” the blonde woman continues, echoing my own thoughts. “Maybe next time you’ll be more specific in your requests. Assuming, of course, you survive long enough to make another one.”

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