Page 63 of Bonds of Obsession

I look up at them—these three men who’ve become my whole world. Killian watching the door like Death himself, ready to destroy anyone who threatens us. Atlas, still in pain but refusing to leave my side. Nico, always the voice of reason, always watching out for all of us.

My chest feels too full suddenly, emotions I can’t even name threatening to spill over. I’d die for them in a heartbeat. And that terrifies me, because I know they’d do the same for me.

“Okay,” I nod, finally letting the papers fall from my tired fingers onto my desk. “Let’s go home.”

The word feels different now. Home isn’t just a place anymore. It’s these three men who would walk through fire with me. For me.

I just pray we’re all strong enough to survive what’s coming.

When we finally make it back to the house, it feels like our own safe little bubble after the chaos of the day, but Atlas’s labored breathing as we walk through the door reminds me how close we came to losing him and how he still has a long road ahead until he’s fully healed. His face is pale, his pain obvious in the tight lines around his mouth.

“Upstairs,” I order, and for once he doesn’t argue. Nico and Killian flank him as he makes his way up, their hands hovering near his arms, ready to catch him if he stumbles. The sight makes my throat tight—these powerful men so careful with each other, so ready to support one another.

Once I’m sure they’ve got him settled, I head to the kitchen. My mind is still racing from the phone call with Ambrose as I pull out ingredients, but cooking gives me something else to focus on, at least temporarily.

I’m stirring chicken noodle soup—the same recipe my father used to make when I was sick—when Nico and Killian come back down. They move around the kitchen, Killian grabbing beers while Nico leans against the counter beside me.

“How is he?” I ask, even though I know they wouldn’t have left him if he wasn’t okay.

“Stubborn as fuck,” Killian grunts. “But he’ll live.”

The casual way he says it makes something crack in my chest. Because Atlas almost didn’t live. Because any of us could die in this war that’s brewing.

“What kind of soup are you making?” Nico asks, peering into the pot. His hand settles on my lower back, grounding me.

“Chicken noodle. I’m gonna take some up to Atlas when it’s done.” I stir slowly, letting the familiar motions calm my nerves. “He needs to keep his strength up.”

“What about us?” Killian’s lips quirk up slightly. “Don’t we deserve to be hand fed too?”

I try to smile, but it feels wobbly. “Let’s hope none of you are ever in a position to need this kind of care again.” My voice drops a little. “I can’t… I can’t watch any of you bleed like that again.”

The teasing mood evaporates. Nico pulls me against him, and Killian steps closer, bracketing me between them.

“We’re not going anywhere, siren,” Killian says quietly.

I nod against Nico’s chest, breathing in the scent of them both, letting their presence remind me that we’re all still here. Still breathing. Still fighting.

I carry the bowl upstairs, careful not to spill. Atlas is propped up in bed, shirtless, the bandages stark white against his skin. His eyes follow me as I enter, something soft and hungry in his gaze that makes my heart stutter.

“Here.” I settle on the edge of the bed beside him, passing him the bowl. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He takes a spoonful, and the appreciative sound he makes sends heat curling through my belly. “Even better than the pasta and vegetables I made you that night.”

“The night you cooked for me and left the leftovers in the fridge? You shocked the hell out of me that night.” I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “That feels like forever ago.”

“At least one or two lifetimes ago.” His voice is teasing, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “Even back then, there was something about you that made me want to cook for you and take care of you—even when we were supposed to be enemies.”

I trace my fingers over his arm, lost in the memory. “I remember coming down to the kitchen, so confused about why you’d do that for me.”

“I wanted to stay.” He sets the bowl aside, catching my hand in his. “Fuck, vicious, you have no idea how badly I wanted to stay that night. To talk to you more, to…” He swallows hard. “It felt so easy with you. Like I could tell you anything.”

“It did feel easy.” I squeeze his fingers. “Even though it shouldn’t have been. Even though we were supposed to hate each other.”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “Speaking of that night… I do remember finding something interesting. A certain piece of writing aboutTwilight City Chronicles.”

Heat floods my face. “Oh, Jesus. Not this again.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Do you know what it did to me? Reading those words you wrote, seeing inside your mind like that?” He tugs me closer. “It just made me want you more. Made me realize how perfectly fucked up you are. Just like me.”

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