Page 45 of Bonds of Obsession

Christ. What have we gotten ourselves into? What has she gotten herself into to save my ass?

The bikes are hidden a short distance away in the shadows near the cemetery gates. Nico and Killian help me limp over, but before they can figure out how to get my broken ass onto one of their rides, Quinn speaks up.

“Atlas rides with me.” Her voice doesn’t leave room for argument. Not that I’d argue—the thought of having her close, of being able to hold on to something solid and real after days in Ambrose’s personal hell, is about the only thing keeping me on my feet right now.

I bite back a groan as I get on the bike. Every movement pulls at my ribs and sends lightning bolts of pain through my knee. But I manage it, somehow. Maybe just because the alternative is looking weak in front of the Syndicate members and their bodyguards still watching us from the shadows.

Quinn swings onto the bike in front of me and waits patiently while I wrap my arms around her waist. The position hurts like a motherfucker, but I don’t care. Her body is warm and solidagainst mine, her heartbeat strong and steady where my chest presses against her back.

I breathe in deep, letting her scent wash over me. After days of nothing but the stink of my own blood, it’s like coming up for air after nearly drowning.

The bikes roar to life, and we pull away from the cemetery. I force myself not to look back at the marble angels and the shadowy figures. Force myself to focus on the here and now—the rumble of the engine, the wind on my face, the woman in my arms who just sold a piece of her soul to save my life.

The city blurs past us, but I’m not even trying to focus on where we are or how much farther we have to go. My arms are wrapped around Quinn’s waist tight enough that it’s probably hurting her, but I can’t make myself ease up. I need to feel her, need to know this isn’t just another hallucination brought on by the pain or the lack of food and water.

The engine’s vibration is killing me, but the pain is almost welcome. It means I’m alive. Means I made it. Means she made it.

Nico’s and Killian’s bikes rumble behind us, watching our six like always. Good men. Brothers. Better than I deserve, especially after getting myself caught, after making Quinn do what she did tonight. My chest tightens with something that has nothing to do with broken ribs.

The familiar streets of Quinn’s neighborhood start passing by. Almost there. The thought hits harder than any of Ambrose’s punches. Since the clubhouse burned and the rest of the Princes turned on us, her place has become more home than anywhere else I’ve known. Didn’t think I’d see it again, if I’m being honest. Didn’t think I’d make it out of that warehouse alive, let alone end up here, holding on to Quinn like she’s the only thing keeping me from flying apart.

Getting off the bike is even worse than getting on it was, if that’s possible. Quinn helps, but every movement feels like getting shot all over again. The determination that’s kept me upright—through the torture, through the cemetery, through the ride home—is starting to crack around the edges.

We make it into her house somehow, and my vision starts to gray out at the edges, but I force it back. Just a little longer. I just need to hold it together a little longer.

Nico flips on lights as Killian secures the door. Quinn’s hand is steady on my arm, guiding me forward. One step. Another. The floor seems to tilt under my feet like the deck of a ship in a storm.

“Almost there,” Quinn says softly. But we both know it’s a lie. I’m done. Empty. Whatever reserves I’ve been running on are officially tapped out.

The last of my strength drains away, and my legs buckle without warning as days of torture, blood loss, and whatever cocktail of drugs Ambrose gave me finally collect their due.

16

QUINN

My heart lurchesinto my throat as Atlas’s legs give out. I catch his weight on one side as he starts to fall, and Killian is there in an instant, grabbing him on the other side. Even with both of us supporting him, Atlas is heavy as fuck—all muscle, even after days of torture.

“I’m… fine,” he mutters, trying to push us away. His words slur together, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Killian just grunts at that obvious line of bullshit. “Sure you are. And I’m the fucking King of England.”

“Shut up and let us help you,” I snap, my voice harsh with worry. Seeing him like this—barely conscious, clearly in agony—makes me want to hunt Ambrose down and skin him alive. Slowly. But right now Atlas needs me here, needs me focused.

“Living room’s closer,” Nico suggests, already moving ahead to clear a path.

“No.” I shake my head. “He needs a real bed. Upstairs.”

Getting Atlas upstairs is rough. Every step draws a sharp intake of breath from him, although he tries to hide it. Stubborn bastard won’t even lean on us properly, still trying to take some of his own weight even though his legs are threatening to give out again.

My jaw aches from clenching it so hard, but I force myself to stay steady. To be the support he needs right now, even though seeing him hurt like this makes me want to lash out and inflict some pain of my own.

I’d start with Ambrose, but I definitely wouldn’t stop there.

We manage to get Atlas up to his room—the one that somehow became his over the past months, although we never really talked about it. Just like we never really talked about how his presence became something I counted on.

The light flips on, and it takes all three of us to get Atlas onto the bed. He collapses against the pillows, his face gray with exhaustion and pain. His breathing is ragged, uneven, and my chest tightens at the sound.

“Medical kit,” Killian says, already heading for the door. “Back in thirty seconds.”

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