Page 73 of Bonds of Obsession

“Quinn—” Imogen starts to say something else, but I don’t have the fucking patience to listen anymore.

“Don’t,” I cut her off, not taking my eyes off Elliot. “I understand the rules perfectly well. I’ll play my part in your little vendetta, Elliot. Just remember something.” I lean forward,lowering my voice to barely above a whisper. “Everything comes full circle eventually. Every debt gets paid.”

He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Is that a threat, little girl?”

“No,” I say softly, thinking back to my father’s lessons about karma and consequences. “Just an observation about how things tend to work in our world. The blood always comes back around, doesn’t it?” I straighten up, squaring my shoulders. “Now, do you want to keep measuring dicks, or can we discuss the actual plan?”

“Such fire,” Malcolm murmurs, something like appreciation in his tone. “I do hope you survive long enough for us to see what you become.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Elliot hasn’t backed down yet, and apparently wants to get one more dig in. “Taking out a target isn’t like fucking your way through a motorcycle club. Some of us actually have to get our hands dirty.”

The rage that fills me is instant and white-hot. Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet, my palms flat against the polished wood. “You want to test that theory?” My voice comes out low and deadly. “Because I’ve got no problem showing you exactly how dirty my hands can get.”

“Quinn.” Nico’s voice carries a warning, but I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

“I’ve killed before,” I continue, still without ever breaking away from Elliot’s gaze. “And unlike you, I didn’t need to target someone defenseless to prove I’m tough. So watch your fucking mouth before I decide to demonstrate.”

Owen Callahan, the rugged smuggler with his man-bun and calculating eyes, lets out a low whistle. “Our new girl’s got teeth after all.”

“And I know how to fucking use them,” I snap back, looking around the table at each one of them in turn until I make it back to Elliot. “Now, let’s get back to business.”

Malcolm clears his throat, commanding attention without raising his voice. “Tomorrow night,” he says, sliding a folder across the table. “Everyone moves on their assignments at exactly twenty-three hundred hours.”

“Why the rush?” Imogen asks, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against her glass. “Surely we need more time to?—”

“Arturo leaves Detroit in thirty-six hours,” Elliot cuts in. “This is our window. Each of you has your role. Rafael will draw him out with the promise of a deal. Cassandra’s people will take out his security detail. Owen handles transport. The rest of you know your parts.”

My stomach churns as I think about my “part” in all this. A pregnant woman. An unborn child. But I keep my face neutral as Malcolm continues outlining the timeline.

“Synchronized attacks,” he explains. “No room for error. No time for second thoughts.” His gaze lingers on me at those last words.

When the meeting finally ends, I push back from the table, my legs steadier than I expected. My men fall into position around me, creating a wall of muscle at my back. I take a moment to study the faces around me, trying to read beneath their careful masks.

Cassandra’s beauty holds an edge as she gathers her papers with precise movements. Imogen’s charm seems calculated, every gesture measured as she exchanges whispers with Rafael, whose easy smile never quite reaches his eyes.

Owen, with his man-bun and rugged features, watches everyone with the wariness of a career criminal who’s survived by never letting his guard down. He catches me looking and gives me a slight nod—not friendly, exactly, but acknowledging.Maybe he respects that I stood up to Elliot. Or maybe he’s just marking me as someone to watch.

Elliot lingers at the table, his scarred face twisted in what might be a smile or a snarl. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl—not with lust or even hatred, but with the clinical interest of someone imagining how I’ll look when I break. When this assignment either hardens me or destroys me.

Malcolm, though, is the hardest to read. His expression gives away nothing as he watches the others file out, like a king surveying his court. Or maybe a puppet master examining his dolls. He meets my gaze for a moment, and I swear I see something like approval there. It makes me feel sick.

“Quite a crew,” Atlas murmurs behind me. His voice is tight despite his attempts to hide it. I know the pain meds and antibiotics have helped his recovery a lot, but there’s still a long way to go before he’s back to good.

“Yeah,” I breathe back. “Real fucking cream of the crop.”

The difference between this group and my men is as stark as night and day. With the Princes, there’s trust and loyalty. A bond that’s been forged over years of having each other’s backs. With my Enigma crew, there’s a sense of family—a family we’ve all chosen to be a part of.

But here? Every person watches the others like they’re calculating odds, measuring threats. They work together because it benefits them, but there’s no trust. No loyalty beyond what their rules demand. It’s all politics and power plays, a bunch of predators circling each other, waiting to see who shows weakness first.

I catch Imogen studying Elliot with barely concealed hostility. Rafael keeps his back to the wall, never fully turning it to anyone. Even Malcolm, for all his authority, seems to track every movement in the room like he’s expecting a betrayal any second.

“Bunch of fucking assholes,” Killian grumbles as we head for the exit, his words too low for anyone else to hear.

“Yeah,” I breathe back, feeling the weight of what I’ve gotten myself into. “And I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the worst of it yet.”

The thought settles in my gut like lead. I chose this path to save Atlas, but now I’m wondering about the price. Not just for me, but for all of us. Because something tells me the Dark Lotus Syndicate doesn’t let people walk away once they’re in.

And I’m in it up to my fucking neck.

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