Page 43 of Bonds of Obsession

Every single one of them clearly disapproves of the way I’ve handled myself tonight. None of them bothered to hide their contempt when I revealed my true intentions for the marker, and now that contempt has crystallized into something harder and more dangerous.

Something that, as the blonde woman hinted, could get me killed if I’m not careful.

But I didn’t survive this long—especially as the leader of Enigma—by backing down when people tried to intimidate me.

“Is that a threat?” I keep my voice casual, almost sweet. “Because I’d hate for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

“Think of it as an observation,” she replies smoothly. “That man, Ambrose, can’t be happy about the fact that you betrayed him. You’ve made things personal for him.”

“Everything’s personal in this business.” I meet her gaze, then let my eyes sweep across all six of the Syndicate members. I keep my chin high, my spine straight, channeling every lesson my father ever taught me about projecting power even when you’re outnumbered.

“You’re right,” I add, letting a hint of steel enter my voice. “I should have been more specific. That’s on me. But let’s be clear about something—when and how I use my votum is my business. The marker was mine to call in however I saw fit.”

“You lied about your intentions,” the man named Owen says. “Claimed you wanted membership for someone else.”

“I changed my mind.” I take a deliberate step forward, feeling Atlas, Nico, and Killian at my back. “As far as I’m aware, I haven’t broken a single rule of the Dark Lotus Syndicate. So unless someone wants to officially accuse me of violating our agreement…” I let the challenge hang in the air. “I suggest we all remember that I’m a full member now, whether any of us likes it or not.”

“Very well.” Malcolm’s voice holds a hint of amusement. “Welcome to the family, Miss Kent. I look forward to seeing how you adapt to our ways.”

15

ATLAS

The tensionin the air thickens like smoke, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe that’s just my broken ribs. I force myself to scan the circle of figures surrounding us, cataloging potential threats even though my vision keeps trying to blur at the edges.

Nico’s grip on my right arm tightens fractionally—a warning. On my left, Killian’s muscles tense with barely contained violence. They feel it too, the way the atmosphere has shifted from one kind of danger to another. We may have survived the gunfight, but we’re far from safe.

I don’t know much about this syndicate, but it’s obvious that these aren’t the kind of people you turn your back on. Even with my head spinning and every breath sending knives through my chest, I can see that much.

The Dark Lotus Syndicate members move with the instinctual grace of apex predators, and their bodyguards position themselves with military precision. Like a basket of vipers, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

My body screams in protest as I try to steady myself, to take more of my own weight. If this goes sideways, I’ll be more liability than help, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try. The past few days are a blur of pain and blood and rage, but my instinctsare still sharp. Sharp enough to recognize that we’re surrounded by people who kill for sport as much as profit.

I count weapons, sight lines, potential cover. Old habits that Ambrose’s hospitality couldn’t beat out of me.

Quinn stands tall, her chin lifted in defiance. But I can see the way her hand stays near her weapon, the slight tension in her shoulders that means she’s ready to move at a moment’s notice. She feels it too—the predatory attention focused on us from all sides, the way this could all go very wrong very quickly.

My head is still spinning, trying to make sense of what just happened. The last time I saw Quinn—before Ambrose’s men grabbed me at Blood and Ink—we’d all agreed the marker was too fucking dangerous. That anything to do with the Dark Lotus Syndicate was a death sentence waiting to happen.

When Ambrose dragged me here tonight, I figured it was another trap. The bastard’s already proven he can’t be trusted, already shown how far he’ll go to get what he wants. Even with my brain foggy from days of whatever shit his men pumped into me between beatings, I just assumed he’d find a way to kill me before he ever agreed to hand me over.

But this… fuck. This is worse. I might still be alive for now, but Quinn is still in danger.

She didn’t use the marker for Ambrose. She didn’t find a way to destroy it. Instead, she let these psychopaths burn it off her skin piece by piece. The smell of her burning flesh is still in my nose, mixed with gun smoke and blood. I can’t get the image out of my head—Quinn kneeling there, jaw clenched, letting them brand her like cattle just to get into their ranks.

And for what? For me? The thought makes me sick, makes the pain in my ribs feel like nothing compared to the weight in my chest. I got myself caught so she wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. So she could stay clear of whatever games Ambroseand the Syndicate are playing. Instead, she’s tied herself to them. Made herself one of them.

Sure, it worked. When she called that votum thing, they had to help. Had to turn on Ambrose. Had to get me free. But at what cost? These people aren’t just criminals—they’re something else entirely. Something that makes hardened killers nervous just hearing their name. And now Quinn is bound to them, marked by them, owned by them in some way that I’m not sure any of us even understand yet.

I get why she did it. Tactically, it was fucking brilliant—turning Ambrose’s own play against him, using his greed to lure him here where the Syndicate’s muscle could take him down. The second Quinn called that votum thing, Ambrose was screwed. Even his best mercenaries couldn’t match the kind of firepower the Syndicate brought to the party.

But now the math has changed. Now we’re the ones surrounded by killers, and the numbers aren’t looking good.

My vision blurs at the edges as I scan for weak points. The big bodyguard on the left favors his right leg. Two near the angel statue are too close together—a single burst of automatic fire would take them both. The woman with auburn hair has the best position, but her guard’s sight line is blocked by a marble column.

Not that any of it matters. Even if I wasn’t half-dead and running on fumes, we’d be fucked if this goes sideways. Nico and Killian are solid—best fighters I know, along with Quinn—but they both have to be low on ammo after the firefight.

The man who just welcomed Quinn to the ‘family’ moves forward, each step measured and precise. My hands itch for a weapon, but Nico’s grip on my arm tightens again—a warning to stay still.

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