Page 83 of Bonds of Obsession

My blood turns to ice. Marcos, one of my newer recruits—young, eager to prove himself. Always gets coffee before his shift. Too fucking predictable with his routines, something I’d been meaning to talk to him about.

“Was that fresh ink on his forearm? It’s nicely done. Looks like the work of a real pro.” He pauses a moment. “Now that I think about it, you know what else it looks like? Like a target.”

Atlas is already moving toward the door. Nico is typing furiously on his phone now, hopefully pulling up traffic cams. But all I can hear is the sound of Ambrose’s breathing, the sick satisfaction in his voice as he describes my newest soldier’s last moments of freedom.

“Maybe I’ll send you pieces,” he says quietly. “So you remember what happens when you fuck with me. Starting with that new tattoo. Would you like that, Quinn? A little souvenir?”

The phone creaks in my grip. Marcos is just a kid, barely twenty-one. He joined up to help support his little sister after their parents died. This is my fault. My choices putting another person in danger.

“If you touch him,” I start, but Ambrose cuts me off with another laugh.

“You’ll what? Kill me? First you have to find me.”

The line goes dead, and I instantly start dialing the shop as the four of us spring into action.

“Spread out!” I bark into my phone as we race out the door. “I want eyes on every fucking corner within five blocks of 7th. He’s there somewhere.” My voice doesn’t shake, even though my insides are twisting themselves into knots.

Nico is already on his bike, his engine roaring to life. Atlas swings onto his, grimacing at the pull on his wounds, but there’sno time to argue about whether he should stay behind. Killian is right behind me as I mount my own bike, his presence steady and lethal as always.

We tear out of the driveway with rubber screaming against the asphalt. Three of my people radio in that they’re converging on the area. Good. We need all the eyes we can get.

My heart pounds against my ribs as we weave through traffic, splitting lanes and running reds. Every second feels like another nail in Marcos’s coffin. Every moment we waste could mean the difference between finding him alive or?—

No. I can’t think like that.

We screech to a stop at the corner of 7th and Marshall. Damon and Jasper are already there, expressions grim as they jog over to us.

“Nothing yet,” Damon reports, frustration evident in the tight lines around his mouth. “But we heard?—”

A sharp crack echoes from somewhere behind the row of buildings. Like metal hitting concrete.

Atlas’s head snaps toward the sound. “There.”

We move as one unit, drawing our weapons as we get closer to the source of the noise. There’s an alley between two abandoned storefronts, and we all exchange a quick glance as we approach.

This has to be it.

“Cover the exit,” I tell Damon and Jasper, not waiting for their acknowledgment before following my men into the darkness.

The silhouette of his body tells me everything I need to know.

“Fuck.” The word tears from my throat.

Marcos lies crumpled against the brick wall, limbs bent at unnatural angles. His face… Christ, his face. That fucking smile carved into his cheeks, blood still wet and glistening.

Killian moves forward to check the body, but I already know. We’re all staring at the same misshapen form. His eyes are empty. Glassy. His chest doesn’t rise or fall.

“He’s still warm,” Killian says quietly.

Bile rises in my throat. We were so fucking close. A few goddamn seconds too late.

“Quinn.” Nico’s voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. Atlas snarls something low and vicious that I can’t quite make out. But all I can see is Marcos’s face, twisted into that grotesque parody of a smile. All I can think about is how fucking young and eager he was to prove himself.

This was my fault. My choices led to this.

“I’m going to kill him,” I say, and my voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Flat. Empty. “I’m going to make him suffer.”

Killian’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Grounding me.

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