Page 107 of Bonds of Obsession

We confirm the address and a few more details, then head downtown to the luxuriously modern high rise. The building is all glass and steel that reaches up into the sky. Imogen is waiting in the lobby, looking bored and annoyed but expensive as hell in a fitted black dress.

“Took you long enough,” she says, eyeing our shopping bags. “Follow me.”

The private elevator has got a glass wall showing Detroit sprawling below us. Above us, there are mirrors on the ceiling. Nico positions himself between me and Imogen.

I really don’t think she’s a threat, but I’m not gonna complain about the extra bit of protection.

“The penthouse has been secured,” she says, punching in a code. “I’ve added cameras, motion sensors, and reinforced the doors. Nobody gets in without you knowing.”

“Are there any weapons here?” Killian asks, holding the cat carrier.

“There’s a cache behind the living room wall panel.” She rattles off the combination to the wall safe and looks up at our reflection in the mirrored ceiling. “I’ve left you some handguns, rifles, and enough ammo to start a small war. There’s a panic room too, with a hidden entrance in the master closet.”

“Who else knows about these security measures?” Nico asks.

“Just the other Syndicate members. And now you.” Imogen arches a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“Yeah. Too many people know our escape routes.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, honey.”

The elevator keeps climbing. I hate that we have to be here, that we have to do any of this. We should all be curled up in bed right now—in my bed, naked, enjoying each other’s bodies. Instead, we’re taking charity from someone I barely know and definitely don’t trust.

“The building has private security,” Imogen continues. “They’ve been informed you’re VIP guests. No questions asked, and no one else gets up here without clearance.”

“Sounds like a fucking cage,” Atlas mutters.

“A gilded one,” Imogen agrees. “But it’s the safest cage in Detroit right now.”

The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. It’s bright and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, and tasteful but muted art pieces.

“The kitchen is fully stocked,” Imogen says, walking us through. “I normally keep a chef on call for high rollers, but I wouldn’t advise bringing anyone up here unless you know them well enough to trust them with your lives. The bedrooms are down that hall, and the master suite is through there.” She hands me a set of keys. “These are the only copies I have. Don’t lose them.”

“Who comes to clean?” Killian asks, already checking sight lines and exits.

“Nobody without your approval first.” Imogen watches him case the place. “Smart man. Every room in here is also effectively soundproof, so no need to worry about disturbing each other.” Her gaze slides over the four of us. “Or whatever arrangement you all have.”

I take the keys and start to thank her, but she puts a finger up, interrupting me.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Imogen’s smile turns sharp. “Remember what I said earlier. The Syndicate’s protection onlylasts as long as you stay loyal. Cross us, and there’s nowhere you can hide. Not even here.”

She turns on her heel and walks out while the guys immediately start checking every room, every closet, every possible hiding place.

I stand at the windows, staring out at my city. Somewhere out there, Ambrose is planning his next move. And we’re stuck up here in our expensive new prison, playing by the Syndicate’s rules.

“I need a shower,” I announce to nobody in particular, then turn and walk through the master suite to one of the biggest bathrooms I’ve ever seen. There’s a walk-in shower that has enough room for all four of us at the same time, and a separate tub that’s on a raised platform with a breathtaking view of the entire city below.

The shower itself is fancy as hell, with multiple heads and jets and settings I don’t bother trying to figure out right now. I just turn it as hot as it’ll go and step under the spray. The water feels good beating against my skin, but it can’t wash away the shit storm in my head.

Just outside the bathroom, I hear Atlas and Nico arguing about security placement.

“That camera angle has a blind spot,” Atlas says.

“Then we’ll add another one,” Nico snaps. “We’re not taking any fucking chances in this place. No one gets in. No one gets near her.”

The independent part of me wants to call out to them and let them know—in no uncertain terms—that I don’t need a babysitter or fifteen fucking security cameras pointed at me twenty-four-seven.

But honestly?

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